Kill Me Before Death
by King of Novices
Summary: In which a predator learns that his heart can be threatened in the same manner he threatens his habitat. In which Malik learns that standing up for others is harder than standing up for yourself. In which worlds collide, re-assemble, and form a curious amalgam. TL;DR Kadar borrows money from Altair and the mafioso wants Malik as payment. AltMal SEQUELS INSIDE
1. PART 1 Kill Me Before Death Ch 1

**A/N: Time to pop my AC cherry.**

**Inspired by a kinkmeme prompt.  
**

**This appetizer is to gauge interest and see if anyone's interested in the rest since it doesn't seem a very popular theme/kink.**

**I'm rusty, but give the story a chance, it's not your classical mafia rape thingy, I swear on the Styx.**

* * *

While he follows Kadar's lead on an unfamiliar path, Malik vaguely considers how life can swerve from a well-trodden track and come down to this. A failure of these proportions should, by all calculations, not have happened to someone like him. Malik is an honorable man. A man of vision. A man of reason.

Wherein did he make a misstep?

"It can't be that bad, _akh_. He's a reasonable man, he'll concede."

And then there is his reckless brother. The most endearing and aggravating creature of all, clearly the crucial perpetrator of said misstep. As far as his sibling goes, Kadar's failures are Malik's failures as the older brother.

"I won't repeat myself, so you better listen and take notes. We're going in there to lick boots of a man I've never seen, a man I've sold my car for, and unless you spew gold from your mouth, you better keep it shut."

Kadar visibly balks at Malik's words and recoils into his inner sanctuary with little mutiny. After their long journey on foot, they make halt at the front of a well-fortified villa on the outskirts of the city—close enough for keeping an eye on business, but well out of reach of the city's inner turmoil. The entrance is surprisingly unattended, but the heavy steel of an ornately arcuated gate rises a good portion over their heads, barring access to the estate surrounded by heavy masonry. They turn their attentions to the intercom and Kadar softly clears his throat before pushing the talk button.

Malik let his curious gaze wander past the heavy gate and into the lavish garden prostrate before the rising villa. It looks like any other mafioso mansion Hollywood had handed out over the years.

Malik is here for a reason and having someone killed isn't it.

"_The Auditore residence. How may I be of service?_"

"I uh—I was supposed to meet with mister Ibn-La'Ahad at noon."

"_Name, please?_"

"Kadar Al-Sayf. Acquaintance."

Silence greets them.

Kadar quavers a hello into the intercom.

"_There are two persons._"

Caught unaware, Kadar glances back at his brother, then leans back into the microphone.

"Malik Al-Sayf, my brother."

The buzz of the unlocking system jars Kadar into action and he pushes at the smaller gate, one set snugly into the right wing of the whole. Down they went.

An uncompromising path leads them up a grandiose annular staircase, to the entrance where a person Malik assumes is the butler awaits. Kadar smiles awkwardly and tries to shake hands with the man who merely looks down at the outlandish offer and moves aside to let them pass. Malik _looks_ at the man as he enters, following Kadar's lead again, but the stoic man makes no attempt to acknowledge his gaze, or presence, for that matter. The doors are closed in their wake and silence becomes their friend once again after they are left to fend for themselves. Kadar seems to be facing problems other than their sudden loneliness in a stranger's lair.

Kadar is getting nervous.

Malik is mindful of both his brother's antics—the ugly crease between his brows which appeared to be a recessive trait, the tight press of lips, the kneading of thumbs in fists—and the clearly luxurious surroundings of the atrium. Marble and lacquered wood and crystal.

Marble and human scum living among it.

Malik silently takes in the environment and thinks of all the pleasure this visit to a mafia-infested nest offers. His gaze finally settles on what seems like a family portrait of a rather colorful lot, men and women of all shapes and colors, people that only a common purpose could bind.

He watches and thinks of nothing; he tears his eyes from the photograph just in time to see the strut of their descending host.

He could pin a tag on this "friend" of Kadar's on the basis of his looks and bearing, but not his clothes. Malik may have arrived in a casual cardigan and jeans, but he doesn't feel severely under-dressed next to their tormentor.

The man dons well-worn but polished shoes, a plain shirt neatly tucked into a pair of belted slacks that is buttoned only from third button down and rolled up to his elbows. Where his attire suggests a comfortable informality, though, his stance screams vigilance and acute alertness. This is accentuated by the gleaming steel handle peeking from the holster that rests across the man's hip. Malik does his best to pay it no mind. The faster they are done with this, the faster they can wave a farewell to this absurd episode in their lives and go back to their uneventful but safe existence.

Altaïr nods at Kadar in a silent greeting and Malik blames the bleach-white of the shirt for drawing his attention to the curve of the man's neck and the fabric pulled taut over his biceps. When Altaïr turns to look at him, Malik is struck by the unnatural amber of his eyes. Their rival for attention is a clean-cut scar across the right swell of Altaïr's lips, a shade lighter than the warm bronze of his skin.

Something akin to interest flits across Altaïr's features before he rectifies his slip-up and schools his features into a presentable plaster mask. He looks like a man who wouldn't offer a smiling glance to a fucking neighbor.

Kadar beams an unsure smile at his debt collector before he decides to speak."I've brought the money, as agreed. Well, at least in part..." Kadar's tone falters as he unzips his backpack and digs into it to gather up the cash, "although we sold the car, there's still not enough to cover the interest rate, so…" he rambles on in hope the mafioso will catch a hint. Altaïr barely seems to pay Kadar attention.

Malik knows better, but this does little to shake off the weight of the man's gaze.

"The agreement was as clear as they get, Kadar. I lend you the cash and, according to the laws, you return it with additional costs today at noon, no excuses."

Malik expels a brief, humorless laugh. "According to _your_ laws."

The mafioso fixes him with a stare.

"Is there any other form of law under this roof?"

The ensuing staring contest between the two of them is brief and painful. And not to Malik's advantage.

"There is no law here." He murmurs at last, a weak recompense for a lost battle and forfeited victory.

Were he any other man, less shaped by lashes of world's cruelty and the way of men, he might have recoiled as Altaïr suddenly approached him. The man veers left and commences a slow circle around Malik, much like a feline with regard to its prey.

"Who's this?" The question may or may not be directed at Kadar, now a mere spectator in the unfolding play.

"I can speak for myself." Though Malik's eyes attentively follow Altaïr's every step, he stills his body as not to aggravate the predator. An air of sandalwood washes over his senses and he swallows, for reasons not entirely unpleasant.

"Who are you then?"

Malik thinks he sees a look of wary inspection in amber eyes. The tip of a pink tongue subtly flicks up over the scar-tissue while the man awaits a response.

In some distant and remote dark corner of his mind, far-removed from sanity, Malik might have found the man attractive. No one could possibly claim that peculiar circumstances can't make assholes look like saints, and dolls like assholes. The subtle rise of lips made this Greek marble of Apollo look like a smirking douche. Admittedly, a douche who could crush both him and Kadar under his stony grip, if he so pleased.

"Malik Al-Sayf. The older brother of the innocent man you seek to tear apart with your talons."

Somewhere on the periphery of his vision where Kadar stands holding his old backpack firmly clenched against thighs, Malik notices a look in blue eyes questioning his sanity. It was amber that held most of his attention though.

"What makes that you then?"

"A silent observer?" Malik suggested. "A guidance through dark times. A luster of security hovering in the background." He removes his gaze and looks up at the elaborate crystal chandelier hanging above their heads. "Much like this in that regard." Amber eyes briefly follow his lead before re-settling on the Syrian.

"Admiring?"

The single thing more lavish than their surroundings was probably Altaïr's attention on Malik.

"Hardly. The road of excess seldom leads to the palace of wisdom."

To Malik's utter amazement, the man humors him and engages in the small talk.

"Where does it lead?" Altaïr has lowered his voice by now, turning this into an exchange of a pair.

"Straight down the abysmal fields."

Altaïr holds his gaze for a couple of moments. When he finally turns and departs from Malik's personal space, the bubble of bravado bursts and Malik reflects back on their conversation, short as it was, with the deepest regret. He might well have slapped himself on the face with all this.

Malik watches Altaïr's back while the man retreats, stays with back turned to the brothers, pondering.

"Tell you what, Kadar…" He begins after he turns on his heel. "Consider your debt nullified if I get your brother here. A most generous offer."

And just like that, Malik might really have shot himself in the foot.

Altaïr's words go through him like a dose of ice water. He isn't aware of what his own expression looks like, but Kadar's open gape reflects his inner bearings truthfully.

Since Kadar can only sputter in response, Malik finds his voice first.

"I'm not here to cater to your fucking whims." He hisses in a fit of rage.

Altaïr's trained hand latches onto the gun and points it straight at Kadar with little qualm. With no scrutable expression and demand in his eyes, Altaïr regards Malik levelly.

"You prefer your brother with a bindi then?"

In any other situation, Malik might have told the man off or given him the full leash of his tongue. In in other circumstance, where Kadar wasn't threatened before his very eyes, Malik would have played brave Calanus. Today is not that day. And he does not have a death wish in any case.

"What would you have of me?" He keeps his voice even, but no proffered suggestion can hurt worse than a gun's muzzle pointed readily at his brother.

"Step closer." Altaïr commands.

Malik obeys.

Once with access to the faint whiff of sandalwood, at an arm's length away from the man, he stops.

"On your knees."

"Malik—"

"Silence." Altaïr spares Kadar no glance, but lets the gun keep a watchful eye on the protesting Syrian. Meanwhile, Malik drops to his knees, thankful—for all his admiration of marble—that a carpet softens his landing. With no thoughts about his current position and what it entails and all thoughts on Kadar, Malik waits for further instruction.

Altaïr pulls the front of his shirt out, pops the first button of his trousers open and a sense of apprehension and panic starts a slow slither up Malik's insides.

"You know what you have to do." The mafioso prompts, his fly open with a peek of gray briefs underneath.

"Altaïr, _please_—" Kadar launches another useless protest.

Malik does not react.

With lost contact to amber eyes, Kadar, and the gun, Malik can only stare at that mocking peek of gray. Somewhere in the background of his whizzing thoughts are sounds of engines and voices, and distant laughter, but the gunshot that thunders above his head is more than enough to dispel the buzz in his ears.

Malik blanches in frozen terror. His heart slams against his ribs like it wants out while he swirls to see where the shot was fired. Kadar stands petrified, much like a deer caught in the headlights, but not worse for the wear otherwise. The gaping bullet hole on the wall little left to Kadar's ear tells the tale of Altaïr's already poor patience wearing thin and the extent of his demand.

"I won't repeat myself again."

A reckless danger, that's what he is. A threat with no remorse, a bastard with no relent, a fucking asshole with a fatigue for patience, and in that moment Malik hates him with a singular passion.

He turns his back to Kadar and sets mind to purpose, clenches his fingers into fists a couple of times to ease the tremble, and aims for the belt with forced determination. He swallows after the leather parts, licks his lips and finds purchase on the floor before a sudden patter of steps and chatter of men interrupts everything.

Altaïr doesn't bat an eyelash at the intruders when the doors open to reveal two fellow residents of the villa and another butler, but Malik stills his actions entirely.

"_Dio_— _Ezio_!" A blond Italian exclaims at his companion.

Having taken in the scene in the atrium and pushed into action by demand, the man referred to as Ezio reacts promptly. What looks like a dozen or so of shopping bags drops from his hands when he makes a beeline for Altaïr and pulls him to the side to chastise in Italian or Arabic or Urdu or English or _whatever_. Malik lost track of what's been happening for the past couple of minutes anyway. The whirl of movements around the room gets lost on him, as does the sympathetic look of the unknown stranger who had interfered. Much to Malik's and Kadar's misfortune, Altaïr leaves the familial squabble triumphant.

"I'll brook no further interference in this matter. Mind your own business, Ezio." Altaïr's growl of displeasure draws Malik's attention just in time to look up at the man while he is being pulled up by the biceps. Ezio walks out in a huff and leaves his cousin to his own devices. When he disappears through a door to their right closely followed by the blond, the Al-Sayf brothers find themselves in the same trap as before, alone with the half-Syrian.

"The sum is not enough." He points at Kadar's backpack for emphasis, "You're both staying for the day. Until I call for you—" He looks at Malik, "—to repay your brother's debt."

To their relief, he holsters his weapon, but the pointing hand directing them upstairs promises little comfort in near future.

They share a look and proceed to offered direction, side by side but preceding Altaïr while they climb yet another staircase. At the apex Altaïr leaves them in the hands of a butler with instructions and turns to his own business. While they are steered through the mansion Kadar addresses him in whispered apologies.

"Malik—"

"Hold tongue."

"I'm sorry, _akh_… I'm so sorry."

Never before was Malik so torn between giving Kadar a decent, brain-rattling punch and pressing him close to chest.


	2. Kill Me Before Death Ch 2

**A/N: If that rule for mature stuff still counts here, enjoy the chapter while it lasts. You can find the story on AO3.**

Graphic sex in this chapter because I somehow can't seem to avoid it — my sincere apologies for what you're about to read.

One instance of this chapter was inspired by a lovely gorilla. Yes, that one.

* * *

Kadar is sitting on the smaller bed and wallowing in misery like he ought to when Malik leaves the bathroom.

Malik allows the steam to spill past the door and lingers there in the midst of the room. He wears nothing but a towel, a pair of slippers and a tranquil expression on his face. The realization that Altaïr's mind is firmly set and unyielding gives him an odd sense of calm. There's no use in crying over what Altaïr will or will not do, so he opts for venturing into the slaughterhouse calm as a lamb ignorant of its fate.

Malik recuperates from his lengthy shower and lets his body adopt the lower temperature. He steels himself for the inevitable. Because if he is to debase himself for a stupid debt, at least he's going to be classy and look his best. Because he's proficient at looking his best when he's at his worst.

"I've no clue how you keep your head." Kadar all but whispers from the bed. His head rests in his palms, but his voice is not muffled and Malik hears.

The sound he gives in response is devoid of any judgement.

He doesn't want to admit that a tiny sadistic streak makes him enjoy seeing Kadar worry as much as he did, so he curls his toes against the comfortable roughness of cotton slippers and watches another one of those sophisticated chandeliers.

The mansion-cum-villa may be a triumph of architecture, but it feels no less like a cage to them. Odd noises they've grown accustomed to by now come from below at recurring intervals. Malik has no doubts that somewhere beneath there is an elaborate underground for purposes he doesn't want to acknowledge just yet, or ever.

Kadar must have a sudden urge to change the subject because he looks up at Malik and switches tactics.

"How do you think they live? The real mafia, I mean."

Malik pretends to give it a thought because he already knows the answers he wants to give.

"Think about it. _Imagine_ the world from the perspective of a mafioso."

"Okay." Kadar says, fixes his gaze on a random point on the wall and ponders. A couple minutes later, while Malik is getting dressed, Kadar tells him he's imagining the world of mafia.

"What's it like?" Malik makes sure his back is sufficiently toweled before he slips into his t-shirt first.

"Dunno. It's just the world. With lots of money."

"Where are you?"

Kadar's concentration plummets and he scowls at Malik while they share the bed.

"Whatever you mean."

"Where from are you looking?"

"Oh." Kadar picks up focus and thinks again. "From above. Bird perspective, I guess."

"What are you doing up there?" Malik watches his brother scrunch up his nose and resists a smile.

"Dunno."

"Why aren't you down among them?"

"No idea… In their midst, I'm just a visitor. An outsider."

"Well, go down there among them. Take everything you know and don't know about mafia and merge it into one picture."

"Okay." Kadar obeys and does as he is told. A couple of minutes pass before he goes on. "That's interesting. I'd rather _not_ go down there."

Malik's feet are planted on the ground and his back sprawled on the bed when he asks the question he's waited to ask all along. "Why? What's down there?"

"The _jungle_ is down there."

* * *

The Al-Sayf brothers soon learn that the Auditore villa isn't unalike a maze and that this architectural marvel hosts more than just those bearing the name of Auditore, Altaïr being one of such. Even so, they share a more bonding link—that of creed and blood.

They are invited for a meal.

Malik is less than pleased. No matter how much Kadar's escapade cost him and _will_ cost him, he doesn't want to expose his brother to this company longer than absolutely necessary.

They dine because they can't stand to be in the bedroom anymore.

The brothers join _the famiglia_ rounded up around a massive dinner table. The entire affair is too noisy and chatty for Malik's tastes. He selectively follows the jejune chatter about concepts beyond their understanding and interest.

During the course of the meal, several things beg Malik's notice and vie for his attention. All of them are bizarre in their own way, and in no particular order they are as follows:

- cats

- Leonardo

- other people

- Altaïr

- other people with regard to Altaïr.

There are cats of all sorts, in a number Malik can't settle for sure since they come and go unheeded by the majority of people present. The very prospect of this is too weird for Malik to confront and he leaves it at that.

The members don't appear half as dangerous as he knows they are nor half as unpleasant as they ought to be. Malik doesn't think of it because he doesn't want to and because it upsets the ease of viewing in black and white.

The pack is every bit as colorful as the hanging portraits suggest—a courtesy of Leonardo, the fair Italian who had interfered (bless his soul), whose purpose and role in this eccentric band Malik is yet to unravel. The man is a curious blend of such meek nature and sharp eye that Malik wonders how he possibly came into contact with an order of killers. His wit may be the clue, but speculation helps little in this matter.

The little research he did before coming here Malik can't apply.

For all the sense of superiority that surrounds Altaïr, there is no evident boss. At least not at the table. Malik is aware their dinner company is but a small fraction of the whole. Still, all of them are high up the ladder, even the youngest going by the name of Desmond, and Malik doesn't know if Kadar's and his presence at the family table is common occurrence or a rarity. Nobody seems to question Altaïr's choices.

Altaïr addresses no one and keeps talking to a ridiculous minimum. Those who are motivated enough to speak to him do so with wary hesitation and no small amount of reverence.

Malik holds Altaïr's undivided attention and the mafioso finds no shame in keeping an eye on what he thinks he's claimed.

It's Ezio and Desmond who break the ice most of the time.

"Aveline, mouseling, you've sold your pussy-magnet?"

"If you mean my bike, aye."

Across her Ezio is pulling his phone out and beckoning Desmond over.

"She made a hundred grand from this crap? Jesus, I'm in the wrong job." Desmond browses through Ezio's photos of mentioned bike and grumbles on.

Kadar seems to have little problems mingling with the murky lot. He shies away from Altaïr, but eases himself into the company of others.

Over ricotta rollatini, calamari, and a few glasses of red, his brother shoots the breeze with Aveline whose growing fondness for the younger Al-Sayf upsets Malik for reasons that concern mostly Kadar. His distress is shared by a silent man whose name Malik can't even begin to pronounce—he is the dividing zone between the pair and is forced to endure their chitchat. Malik's vision of Kadar's innocence was long left on a dump, but his brother's ease and trust in people clearly costs them both.

Malik doesn't have to participate in prattle because Leonardo is a shielding presence at his right side and he is thankful for that small mercy. A protective vibe emanates from the man that makes him a beacon everyone seems drawn to.

Another curious member of the meal catches Malik's eye and draws his attention (because anything's better than Altaïr's asinine scrutiny). Above the entrance and looking down upon their table is an immortalized beastly eagle with unfolded wings, feasting on what appears to be a stuffed mouse. At first look obscure to the inattentive eye, but domineering from the shadows. The eagle's amber eyes make him think of the man he wishes he could ignore at present. He's both in awe of this staging and bereft of appetite, though he can't put the entire blame on this macabre display regarding the latter.

"Lovely pet."

Leonardo thinks Malik speaks of cats and nods with a warm smile. His smile extends to Kadar who is busy examining the ornate cornice of the table.

"Enjoying your meal?"

"Ah, yes." Kadar trades smiles and clears his throat. "This table is beautiful."

Leonardo seems earnestly excited by the prospect of talking of woodwork. "Spalted maple is the most beautiful wood known to man."

"_Fratello_, I'm pretty sure my _cazzo_ is the most beautiful wood known to man." Ezio quips in.

Malik isn't known to give out laughs, but Kadar chuckles heartily behind his drink like the kid he is and Malik has no heart to object this crude language because seeing his foolish brother laugh is never bad.

Kadar inches closer to him and leans in to provide shelter for words.

"Last time I checked mafia didn't play with cats while eating _gelato_."

Malik doesn't know what to tell him this time and Kadar goes on.

"I think I falsely clung onto the general notion that mafia families are all either a bunch of uneducated thugs or stoic overly-sophisticated dudes who murder people at poker rounds."

The younger Al-Sayf rambles on while Malik's attentions gradually shift over to the man whose alias appears to be Connor.

Connor's presence behind Kadar seems like a congregation center for animals. Having finished the meal, he spends his time petting a couple of most persistent cats, but he is aloof in ways that have little to do with shyness and much more with the reserved way he regards people. Malik can tolerate his and Leonardo's presence most. Interestingly enough, these two are the only ones around who don't have the scar that seems the trademark of this house.

Malik isn't sure if Connor hears them, but Kadar is oblivious in any case.

"I don't understand the hype surrounding the mob either." He answers and watches to see if he'll entice a reaction. And he does.

"The media perpetuate the myth." Connor looks Malik in the eye and keeps their conversation private. "You know how the saying goes, the bigger the lie, the more people will believe it."

Malik nods but Connor continues to pet a tabby and doesn't elaborate further. Kadar is humbled into silence after having been overheard.

"I should like to have Italian pizza at family dinners in the coming days. Altaïr, why aren't we having pizza days?" Ezio whines about and dispels the dark brood that had settled over Malik. His attention re-settles on Altaïr after a fair amount of time that he has ignored him.

"I've seen Italian pizzas, it's like a forest on some dough."

Ezio purses his lips at the half-Syrian.

"You've become very bitter, _fratello mio_. Bitter and old."

When Altaïr speaks, the table falls mostly silent, but at last his attention isn't focused solely on Malik.

"We live in a society where pizza gets faster to your house than the police. Being bitter takes precedence."

The air shifts into a somber state the two newcomers can't comprehend. No one speaks until Leonardo rises to fall back into his studio and bids them all his customary farewells.

"Behave, children. Goodnight and joy be with you all."

The man has not yet departed and Malik already misses his presence. Perhaps it's for the best. Because the sooner he is done, the sooner they can leave.

Because the sooner he satisfies Altaïr's whim, the more probable he is to keep Kadar safe.

Because Altaïr needs zero reasons to have him assassinated.

* * *

Altaïr's refuge is about as huge as Malik had assumed, but less ornate than he perhaps expected.

The sparseness of a couple of furniture pieces strewn about is upset only by an oak suite comprised of a bulky bed, a large table and a wooden panel hosting an array of automatic and semi-automatic weapons.

He finds Altaïr grooming a handgun on the table peppered with cleaning paraphernalia, weapon pieces and clips. Other than scanning him over to confirm his identity, Altaïr pays him no attention. For the time being. He is persistent in polishing his weapon spotless, and that is just fine by Malik.

The panel has captured his attention and now holds his keen interest. Figures only a mafioso could congregate a comprehensive arsenal of weapons.

"Nice armory. Quality stuff, if inelegant." This is sure to get Altaïr's attention as sun is sure to rise.

Altaïr parts gaze from the shining gleam of the muzzle.

"Army?" He inquires.

Malik can't stop the hint of a smirk that bit by bit inches onto his face. When he speaks at last, his voice is every bit as confident as it ought to be.

"Best battery gun in the first artillery battalion. I can reassemble a Ruger 22 in a matter of moments."

Altaïr seems pleased at Malik's familiarity with weapon engineering. A low hum of approbation precedes a nod before the half-Syrian turns to wind up his task.

"A sleek-looking thing. Hard to reassemble." The mafioso ultimately admits.

"I've learned to live with it while it lasted."

Their exchange is less of a hassle Malik imagined it would be.

His scrutiny meanders through the collection of carbines, down to rifles that frame a band of handguns. The gleam of a lovely USP beckons him closer and he shimmies in for a closer inspection. His valiant attempt is not chastised and Altaïr doesn't seem to mind Malik's proximity to a dozen weapons. Maybe they are sans ammunition. Maybe Altaïr is trying to prove something. Either way, Malik knows when to leap at an opportunity that falls into his lap. It's easy to forget Altaïr's presence while he traces engravings on polished wood and ogles the curves of a handsome rifle.

He reflects on the many times he had reassembled a weapon. On times he was compelled into working out its miniscule details until his fingers were sore and his mind numbed into nothing but bolt slides, trigger sears, pins and levers.

Malik admires wordlessly.

He pets over a steel slide and he wonders what it would be like to pull the trigger at the man, but he banishes the thought as soon as Altaïr's voice dispels his petty fantasy.

"It took many lives, the one you watch. Handy for rooting out rats."

Malik's expression sours, but it's a pale version of his inner thoughts. He thinks of the eagle and the stuffed rodent downstairs.

"Must be fulfilling," He starts in a tone fully intended to bite, "to rob people of lives and dignity."

"It's not pleasant business. But it's work our creed decrees."

Malik contemplates laughing but settles for a gentle shake of head and a derisive huff of laugh.

"You wish to speak?" Altaïr prompts, perhaps because he feels he's robbed of a response.

"No."

"Then throw onomatopoeia out the window."

Malik bites the inside of his cheek to kill the urge to spit profanities. "There are no creeds in this world of yours. It's just a lawless jungle. A pretty jungle, granted, but a jungle nonetheless."

There's something about Altaïr that drives him up the wall and down, something that makes him whisper when he wants to shout and curse, and he walks the line, irresolute of what course to take.

"Record what our politicians are doing and tell me we're worse."

"If you entertain some hopes of my sympathies, I'm afraid you'll find yourself severely disappointed." The rising temptation to slip into simple obscenities is difficult to quench at this point. Against all Malik's hopes, the mafioso goes on with his garbled nonsense, but this time in a code much more suited to his current tastes.

"To all you butt-hurts it should be clear that we kill because we are stronger. You can't find _morals_ in nature."

Malik gnashes his teeth but doesn't relent.

"Fuck off back to your tree then."

"No, you go to your superior space alien planet. Let us humans be animals and kill those who deserve death." Altaïr, too, persists until they're on par with the niceties.

The mafioso plays at being calm and it sets Malik on fire until he's burning up and burning out with vexation. Something inside of him snaps then and it makes no sense to keep up any pretenses.

"Boo hoo fucking politicians. Boo hoo this fucking mafia. Boo hoo _that_ fucking mafia. All can be summed up in boo hoo cancer of humanity. How about everyone cleans their toilet instead of looking at how big of a dump everyone made and saying 'the whole toilet smells because of your shit'." Malik is this close to hitting something and the delight in seeing an ugly scowl on the pretty scarred face is all that keeps him at bay. "The toilet smells because of all you shits together. One shit doesn't make a shitstorm, nor one swallow a summer. Or _una hirundo non facit ver_, if you want me to end on a more classy note."

"You speak of things you know nothing of." In that instance, Altaïr seems more upset than haughty and Malik latches onto the small victory and revels in it.

"I know enough to recognize pots and kettles."

Malik's victory is short-lived.

Something in Altaïr's expression shifts and he looks the closest to smiling Malik's seen him all day. He flicks his tongue over the scar on his lower lip before it forms the beginnings of a smirk.

"Take your clothes off."

Well, the respite was nice while it lasted. There's no ditching duty now.

A blink of a moment and Malik's t-shirt is off. He hangs the piece of cloth on his forearm and takes to loosening the belt. Pants follow the example. He stands there, clothes in hand and boxer briefs on, feeling a bit lost, with some scraps of dignity preserved, perhaps.

"That too." Altaïr nicks at the lone piece of clothing.

Malik puts his baggage on the nearest flat surface and makes quick business of that bit of hindrance. His boxers join the pile.

If Altaïr appreciates the sight, he does so quietly. Malik certainly isn't a bodybuilder, but far from a gangly lad. There is a handsome fullness to his form, from strong thighs up to the toned torso of a man who has a decent workout schedule. He knows he's eye-candy for those who enjoy a darker shade of skin and thus endures the stare with confidence. When Altaïr finds he's raked his eyes over Malik long enough, he follows in his footsteps and deftly rids himself of his clothes, save for his briefs. Then he sprawls himself most generously over an armchair. His thighs are spread while he reclines and it's clear enough an order.

Malik takes his sweet time finding a comfortable place to nestle in between Altaïr's thighs, or as comfortable as one could get in this absurd circumstance, and he firmly refuses to remove his eyes from the ominous bulge under the swell of gray briefs. Boldness, nerves, or silent defiance—let the bastard interpret it as he sees fit.

"Well? Do you require instruction?"

This prompts Malik into action. He rises higher on his knees and holds still for the briefest of moments before setting his hands firmly against the warmth of Altaïr's hips. He seeks anchor in the bend where his abdomen meets thighs, fingers dig securely into skin where his thumbs begin to trace along the prominent muscles of his (admittedly) handsome v-cut. Below, he reaches the constraints of the elastic band and stalls.

A flutter of alarm enters his stomach. Altaïr might have noticed his sudden insecurity, too.

"I…" Malik begins devoid of plan—anything to beat Altaïr to it. "I actually… haven't done this before."

"You can't be that bad, I'm sure."

Disgusting. It's sickening that the man's stupid words should offer even a sliver of encouragement. The sad truth is, they do.

Sooner or later Altaïr takes hold of his face to pull his gaze up and drag his thumb across the wetness of Malik's bottom lip.

"Your pretty face will compensate for lost efforts."

Malik can't recall such a tremendous urge to bite a man's finger off.

He waits for Altaïr to resume his position and keeps his mouth firmly shut, then focuses on task at hand.

He pulls at the stretchy fabric and eases it over Altaïr's cock, past his knees and down around his ankles, laying bare the equally bronze skin of his crotch. Altaïr is erect before Malik has to do anything. He eyes the man's fullness with a clinical and entirely rational (dis)interest and blames his surging testosterone levels for the twitch that somewhat hardens his own dick. He exhales and leans closer, and when he breathes in the heady aroma of Altaïr's cologne and a man's musk of arousal, it comes down on Malik in ways he really doesn't need right now.

His fist closes around the base to straighten the shaft up. He tilts his head to flick his tongue over the dewy beads of pre-come and lap up the glans and doesn't linger on the taste. Altaïr pants out when Malik's lips latch upon the crown of his cock.

He lets the mafioso card fingers through his hair and find anchor behind his ears as he eases him down his stiff length.

Malik takes as much as he feels comfortable with and covers the rest in his grip. He isn't motivated or trained enough to go much past his palate, so his depth is shallow, but if he were to judge by Altaïr's reactions, the man looks pleased enough having his dick in Malik's mouth.

Malik is smart enough to use hands and unfettered enough to not worry about salivating over a dick, and Altaïr is far from protesting against it at any rate.

"No teeth." He instructs with a strain in his voice, "Suck it out, not up and down."

Malik knows constructive criticism when he hears some and does as he is asked. When he can't go past his barriers anymore, he _swallows_, because that's what porn stars do, no? The unadulterated lust of Altaïr's groan plummets on him like a thunderclap.

Malik should, by all reason, focus on sucking Altaïr off with efficiency and be done with it, but his hands seem to work sans his knowledge and just won't settle. He thumbs through the dusting of hairs that form a path across the ridge of muscles up to Altaïr's navel and spreads his palms to cover all he can reach.

Altaïr arches into the rough pull of Malik's grip and fists the muslin arm-rests. The man is wrought with greed and his needy hums grate Malik's nerves.

He doesn't acknowledge these things and doesn't want to, for they might change his perspective on the man and that's the last thing on his list of necessities.

His lips wrap diligently around and work Altaïr's cock. In his endeavors he is far from lazy. He is rough, too, and speeds it up until his jaw grows stiff with effort. When it seems to him like Altaïr would like to come, Malik wonders if he wants to finish across his face or down his throat.

The dam that is his bottom lip breaks as he laps up the underside of engorged flesh and gathered saliva dribbles past his lips, down his chin, down Altaïr's length. The mafioso grabs his hair anew, tightens the grip, and Malik is torn between pride and consternation that it takes him this little to reduce the man to clenching of teeth and labored breaths.

His throat does begin to burn unpleasantly and he comes up for proper air and respite. Altaïr is not desperate for release after all and allows the breather without protest. With the back of hand he brushes away the light sheen of perspiration on Malik's forehead and Malik most definitely doesn't think of what all this soppy gentleness makes him feel.

Altaïr's fingers explore and he ventures lower, brushes against his Adam's apple while Malik breathes still and continues a slow path up and over his jaw and chin. A thumb grazes through his dark goatee until it settles against lower lip and delves into moist heat. Malik pushes at the offending digit rather than taking it and this tears a breathy chuckle from Altaïr. Not slighted by the gesture, Altaïr continues the wet drag across Malik's left cheekbone and the scruff of stubble on his jaw.

"Broken?" The husky question dispels the veil of trance that has settled over Malik.

"No. Mother nature tinkered around."

Malik needs so little to hate him. He needs even less to not resist him. This man will be the death of him.

"I like it." Altaïr informs during his deliberate trail over the gentle crook of Malik's nose.

"I fucking detest you."

He is greeted by no response after Altaïr ceases exploration and for a split second of terror fears he might have gone too far.

Altaïr tilts up to rise, dragging the Syrian up along. Malik parts lips to proffer an apology but is not given a chance as Altaïr more or less backs him against the bed. Malik sits down to avoid being pushed and Altaïr follows.

With the impeding obligation and Altaïr hovering over him, he lays himself out, plain and simple, and waits for what is to come. The mafioso is less likely to lash out on a passive receiver and far likely to finish sooner with a pliant body.

Altaïr, of course, conceives of other plans.

"Don't be what you aren't." Altaïr's demand is nothing short of a growl when he holds Malik's jaw in a vice grip. "Don't play coy."

Malik's brows narrow into a glare and Altaïr goes on to fortify his point.

"Don't lie back like a sea star to let me do anything I want, I'd like some initiative from your side as well. If I'd wanted to fuck a sack of dirt, I'd get myself a sack of dirt."

Altaïr reaches between their bodies to take hold of Malik and is not displeased with the weight that settles into his palm— thick enough to entice and long enough to drive him into a frenzy. Amber eyes seize up its size and shape with a smoldering look. Malik closes his eyes and lets Altaïr fist his dick. A snap of the bottle cap perks up his senses, but he refuses to acknowledge what is to follow for at least one more blissful moment. The crinkle of a condom packet is a distant blur of noise. What does make him glance down is Altaïr's slick hand rolling the condom down _his_ shaft with practiced ease while the man aligns himself.

Malik's breath comes out in a rush when it dawns on him what is about to happen and he can only throw his head back and latch onto the first thing that stands in his path (which happens to be Altaïr's forearm) when his cock breaches Altaïr and is slowly engulfed by slick tightness.

Altaïr sticks to a steady pattern of breath as he takes all of Malik in. For a minute he seems to lose himself while comfortably seated on Malik whose tight grip is either ignored or unnoticed.

Only after he makes acquaintance with the constricting warmth on his cock and gets used to the lazy grind of Altaïr's hips does he release the anchor he's found on the man's arm. His hands fall to dig into the pliant flesh of Altaïr's ass and alternate between tightening and release during the short recess.

"You require instruction here as well?" The mafioso mocks while shallow rocks of his hips send gentle waves of pleasure down Malik's dick. Altaïr's palms are spread flush across the dusting of Malik's chest hair and the weight isn't unpleasant. Each slow drag of Altaïr's cock across the path towards Malik's bellybutton smears more pre-come into coarse hairs and it takes Malik no longer than a few heartbeats to turn the tables, pin Altaïr, and start a thorough plunge into pleasure.

Altaïr accepts him quickly between his thighs and arches up into each roll of hips.

Every thrust comes down with a soft pant and Altaïr pushes back just as hard to the point where Malik isn't fucking the man, but Altaïr fucks himself on Malik.

As he picks up tempo and pleasure starts to spread flush across his body, he fucks Altaïr as if there is no tomorrow, because there might not be one if he doesn't satisfy.

It doesn't come as a shock either that Altaïr refuses being bound to one place and one position and they are moving from the bed before Malik can get a grip on his own body.

The half-Syrian fits himself onto the clearest patch of table and doesn't guide Malik as much as firmly plants him into a position to his liking. The light is better from this angle and Malik's gaze is free to roam in moments he's not preoccupied with giving Altaïr what he wants.

They fuck like lovers they are not and Malik lacks opportunity to feel regret. It doesn't cross his mind to lament while he pulls and paws at Altaïr and drives himself into a body that accepts him with gusto.

Malik would best like to deny, but he's taken by the form of this man's body.

Under pretense of keeping Altaïr in place on the table, he maps out the planes of his torso, smooths up his sides, counting each ridge and rib. Altaïr pushes into his hands, off the table and shows off, and Malik can't help but wonder whether the man truly enjoys the attention or if this is a show pitched at him for some inane reason. His right slithers up to Altaïr's neck where his pressure against a hammering pulse hurls the mafioso into a moment of apprehension. He is lulled into a state of bliss once he sees the wanton look in dark coals instead of homicide intentions.

Malik removes the wandering touch because he is getting a tad bit too touchy-feely with someone he professes to despise. Though his touch grows reluctant, his eyes covertly pore over every dip and swell of Altaïr's straining body.

He dips his head to look at where he fucks into Altaïr's body and feels the heat of the other's breath wash across his ear.

Ragged breaths blow hotly over Malik's collarbone and up his chin and kissing the man crosses Malik's mind.

The idea elbows its way up to the front of his mind that this might be completely off-mark, but it's Altaïr who finishes what he doesn't start.

A hand firm against his nape lowers him into a mess of a kiss, all tongue and debauched sloppiness. A gruff moan that rips through Altaïr prompts Malik to shove his tongue further down the man's throat and embed himself deeper into his ass, until Altaïr's malleable body can't hold the sheer weight of his body anymore and Malik loses purchase.

He finds himself all but glued torso-to-torso with Altaïr for a couple of confusing moments and retreats far enough to resume a steady tempo. The weapons behind remain intact but magazines, clips and a menagerie of bullets roll off and drop or are cleared off by Altaïr's hand off table.

Malik feels the lip-lock has meddled into his sense of judgement and the blunder is enough to fish out admissions from depths of his mind.

He does find this asshole attractive.

The alluring burn of amber holds contest for Malik's notice with whitening knuckles, the _clench_ of Altaïr's hand and flexing of muscles while he gropes for purchase on the table.

Altaïr's breathing is notched, thighs tense, but his hips work persistently to the drum of Malik's thrusts. He doesn't settle for receiving but rolls back to take and take and take and drive himself down a certain path he had set for himself.

For just a split second Malik wishes to teach him that certainty is a commodity he can't afford in life, or at least not this time while Malik holds the proverbial reigns.

The mafioso submits to being handled roughly for the time being, yields into the grip and hard snap of Malik's hips. Teeth rip at the scarred lip in hope of alleviating the mix of pain and pleasure that rough fucking brings.

When he's worked the man up into a visible frenzy, Malik reaches for his dick, but his hand is slapped and pushed to side as soon as it makes contact with the flushed crown of Altaïr's shaft. If the man wants it so, then so be it.

Malik shifts to coax him onto his belly, but Altaïr seems to have a dislike for the position and rolls back onto his side while keeping the Syrian firmly pressed between his thighs. The unfortunate captive huffs out a sigh but obliges, grasps with both hands at the junction of his torso and hip, hammers in. The jump of Altaïr's cock assures him he holds an intermittent pressure on something inside that gives the man pleasure. With no further twisting and turning, he commences a steady pace and drives himself into the welcoming pull of Altaïr's body with a sadistic enjoyment and no meager amount of brutish force.

Altaïr is past salvation at this point.

Though his pleasure isn't vocal this time, the sheer amount of trained discipline he utilizes to cover it up is enough to tell the man is at a breaking point. Malik's hold is physically slipping, hands too slick with perspiration, and Altaïr is in a similar state with a fine sheen of sweat layering his body, gathering above the low droop of his brows.

Malik heaves the last gasps of a losing battle, lets go of Altaïr's thigh to slither up his undulating abdominals. He sweeps one last time across the tightening muscles and retreats, knowing better than to shower attentions on the man's cock this time.

Strangely, Altaïr removes himself from Malik's sight as best he can manage in this position; down there somewhere he is fisting through his own hair and panting into the crook of his bent arm, mouth gaping and saliva pooling beneath his tongue as he gasps wetly. The man is clearly lost to world at this point. Malik keeps pace with unchecked power and digs into the strength of Altaïr's body with avarice until Altaïr is pushed over the precipice and into a shuddering climax.

Everything starts to tighten around Malik until breathing becomes a chore, then impossible. Through the throes of pleasure he wonders if it's alright and _allowed_ to spill inside, even with given circumstances. His speed falters for a couple of heartbeats, but Altaïr wears a stern look of disapproval and keeps him embedded. The flash of something bestial in the ambers hiding behind a low scowl is what pushes him to his limit, but the burden of that gaze is too much for Malik to carry and he closes eyes, rides out his orgasm in shallow rocks and slowly brings his labored breathing back in line.

He feels boneless for the briefest moment before he picks himself up and untangles his body from Altaïr's.

"Gods almighty." Altaïr's voice can't be louder than a whisper when he speaks up, "Color me impressed."

Malik offers no response.

Leaned against the flank of warm oak, he rolls the condom wrap off, basks in the stray jolts of pleasure and watches Altaïr wipe the mess off his front. Before he knows what's happening, Altaïr seizes his supporting hand from the table and, pulling him along, makes a beeline for the exit.

"Consider your debt nonexistent, Al-Sayf."

He is thrust outside, the door closed behind him, and there he is.

His nudity in the midst of a hallway isn't the sole purpose for the swell of abject rejection. Altaïr's parting words still toll in his head when the door re-opens and clothes are flung in his general direction.

Malik looks from the bundle in his hands up to the shut doors and is momentarily disoriented.

* * *

He is a little surprised to find Ezio cross-legged and barefoot on a raft sofa, bundled up in a blanket with his fingers latticed together. The Italian is looking out to Altaïr's departing guests across the balustrade and doesn't turn to look at him.

"So, got yourself a boytoy?" He inquires and thinks nothing by it. Around him, the balcony is usurped by a litter of frolicking cats.

Altaïr seats himself across and lights up one of the cigarettes that lie around on the slab of glass before him.

Silence reigns for a while.

Having seen the last of the retreating brothers, Ezio finally deigns him a look and doesn't like what he sees.

"I believe I'll keep the champagne in the freezer a bit longer then…"

The hint of a smirk on Ezio's face isn't that much of a smirk as a gesture of silent sympathy.

"Since your own sexual conquest failed, tell me what to text the girl I've been in passionate ambivalence with for the past couple years in order to persuade her to come over for coitus."

Ezio's jests go over his head. Bleary-eyed, Altaïr looks at the receding lights on the horizon, but doesn't really see them. In a sluggish move he removes the cigarette and lets the smoke slither up from his mouth without expelling it and contemplates crushing its slim shaft into a butt.

"You insult yourself."

"Har-fucking-har." Ezio almost rolls his eyes. Almost. Still, he persists.

"Christina isn't just any girl. How do I approach her? What would you do in my place?"

"I wouldn't spit in my own face."

Malik's scent is still under his skin. On it is still Malik's touch.

Ezio doesn't understand.

"Bitter and old, I say."

Altaïr appreciates a last slow drag of smoke and crushes the cigarette inside an ashtray.

"Spare yourself my poor company then. There's the door, don't let it hit you on the way out."

Yes, he is bitter and cold, unpleasant and harsh, but he is fed up with everything and hungry for something else. He listens to Ezio take up his advice, rolls the bitter taste of smoke around his mouth and thinks of rocks and embedded swords and hearts and of crossed rivers.

Below him, a cat is playing with a stuffed mouse. He watches mindlessly for a while, then bends to take the thread which pulls the mouse away and into his grasp. The toy's eyes are nothing more than two smouldering coal beads, but the childish curve of its smile mocks him. The bait dangles ominously before the animal while Altaïr holds it.

He lets it slip from his grasp.

The toy raps across the feline's muzzle and it recoils. It's the cat that flees from the mouse now.

* * *

**A/N**: a.k.a. the story of how mighty Altaïr fell and felt the burn of love.

One more chapter to go.

If you're outraged at my choice of topping/bottoming, I feel bad for you.  
2014  
still arguing over top/bottom nonsense  
ISHYGDDT


	3. Kill Me Before Death Ch 3

**A/N:** You need to call the cops, because this chapter beat me up and wanted a life on its own.

I split this long-ass monster (30+ freaking pages!) in hope that someone might actually read the story until the end.

I assure you, the struggle is real.

* * *

"Good morning, children." Ezio greets the awaiting pair with Altaïr trailing in his wake.

The fifth person in the dingy space is yet unaware of the newcomers, nestled between the duo that leer over the victim like two eagles. They are sans hoods and dressed in bike regalia. Desmond is still novel to the leather, but Aveline is on familiar grounds.

Desmond is quick and light on his feet as he slithers from the grimy table he used to occupy and approaches his elders.

"Aveline, mouseling, what makes you so morose?" Ezio asks when Aveline doesn't move or acknowledge them.

"Lack of his brains on the floor?" She proffers a suggestion and pulls at the binding ropes pointedly. The movement shakes the restrained man into awareness.

"All in good time." Altaïr assures as he takes the reigns and closes in on their victim.

His grim expression is the first thing the man sees as he blinks himself into consciousness. The growth of his silvery beard is streaked with dotty ropes of crimson where Aveline's bitterness left its marks. Altaïr has no pity to spare in the face of this brutal treatment. He doesn't share her weakness for children but they are of like mind when justice asks for balanced scales.

"_You_—"

"We know all that you are and we want the whereabouts of your boss." Altaïr cuts off. His voice is calm with knowledge of impeding success. His mere presence is often enough to make better men spill their guts. It's a matter of seconds before their target fully recognizes there is no way past revelations.

"I know where he is." The man stammers out, bloodshot eyes frantic with hope of prolonging his state of safety. He isn't young, but unused to the role of a hostage.

"Speak." Altaïr orders even as his blood curdles at the blatant cowardice, however advantageous to their cause.

Ezio isn't within his range of sight, but Aveline and Desmond are a shifty presence at the man's sides and eager to aid justice. Of the two of them, Aveline is older and more experienced, but her current impatience doesn't irk Altaïr because her mind is in the right place.

Amber eyes shift across the cluttered abode they keep their captive in while he waits.

"I know you're small fish, you're not really worth much. But you've probably thought the same of the children you've shipped off for trafficking," says Altaïr.

Aveline's mouth is scrunched up into a sneer while she digs into the tendon of his throat and the man swallows against her blade.

"I'm not without mercy." Altaïr continues, "Give us whereabouts and you will bear witness to this."

"What do I get in exchange for cooperation?" There is more greed than hope in the lilt of his voice.

"Quick death."

The man wheezes and is quiet and lives on borrowed time.

"Or do you wish for a full night in the gentle hands of my cousin?" On Altaïr's cue, Aveline cuts into the soft flesh of the victim's jugular and nicks the vein. Fresh blood joins the crusted spray on the man's tailored suit.

"The Carnevale!" The man is afraid of torture and quick to avoid it, "He's aboard the Carnevale!"

The mobster is yet heave out his final breath when a splatter of blood lands across the white of Altaïr's shirt.

Aveline shoots a rueful look at him. "Apologies."

She holsters her gun and readies herself for reprimand of any kind.

Altaïr's gaze falls to the mess on his shirt before it flits over the guzzling hole on the slumping body on its way up to Aveline. They hold a deep reliance on blood relationships, loyalty, and honor, but he tolerates her sudden bout of disobedience because there are worse things he has endured in the past few days.

"There we have it." Ezio says in fake cheer as he guides Altaïr out by the shoulder, a smile much too large on his face considering what their week has been like so far.

"Clear the mess, mouselings." He instructs on their way out.

They are walking out of the shady apartments, quick in step on their way back to skid row—Altaïr to his car and Ezio to who knows where. Altaïr scans his wristwatch during the process of buttoning off. He divests himself of his ruined shirt before they reach outdoors, but by now he's aware that Ezio is deliberately following him.

"Where are you headed?" The Italian inquires when it's clear Altaïr won't share his final destination.

"None of your business."

Altaïr thumbs the safety of his handgun before he unlocks the car and haphazardly folds his shirt into a plastic bag on the backseat. His spare shirt is somewhat wrinkled and he will need a new one for where he is going.

Ezio watches him dress in silence and speaks only after Altaïr heads for the driver's seat.

"Altaïr." Ezio clasps his hand over Altaïr's while it still rests atop the door, "If you've even a dram of consideration for that Syrian guy, you won't drag him into this mess."

Altaïr's expression is cross when he sends him a look.

"When's the right time to look to my own inclinations, Ezio? I fight for freedom but have none of my own. Danger and power I may look, but I'm no less human than the next man."

Ezio drops his gaze in consideration of the words.

He has no response to the impromptu outburst and it mellows Altaïr out. He brings his free hand up to where Ezio's and his are still joined to draw his attention.

"One crooked tooth won't stop jaws from snapping. The order will survive even with me swerving from our course from time to time."

Ezio nods in understanding and his smile is soft.

After Altaïr is seated behind the wheel, Ezio knocks twice against the glass and the window rolls down.

"Be careful, cousin. He must know you've recognized his weaknesses, else he'll see just a potential slave in you."

Altaïr halts before ignition and looks up in curiosity and mild wonder.

"It's something Leonardo told me." Ezio grins, "He thinks of your case when he's not cluttered in projects."

"Really?" Altaïr muses. It sounds like something Leonardo would tell. "At least it's one good we've done today he'll be glad about."

"Which makes me wonder," Ezio ponders and lifts himself off when Altaïr starts the car, "Which would be worse: to live as a monster or to die as a good man?"

"You'll die either way." Altaïr says and the purr of the engine almost drowns his words.

* * *

When Malik leaves his office and starts an unhurried walk across the parking lot he no longer has use for, his heart stops right in his chest.

He sees his ex-parking place annexed by none other than the man he least expects and welcomes even less.

It's a little over a month since his encounter with Altaïr.

A sliver of apprehension is snaking up his spine while he inspects Altaïr reclining on the side of what is presumably his car, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from the scarred side of his lips as he returns the gaze.

A few moments after Malik assures himself he's safe (hopefully) and rummages through most recent memories to remember that Kadar is safe (he phoned him minutes ago), he ventures ahead a couple of steps.

"La."

"The one and only." Altaïr's voice is oh-so-smooth and calm, his face remains frustratingly blank.

Malik does the most reasonable thing he can cook up and just walks past.

As he expects, so it happens that the mafioso isn't pleased by the lack of acknowledgement and follows after Malik.

"Hold. I would speak with you."

Malik stops in his tracks and wonders how much time this will last because there's the last bus he needs to catch. "We have repaid the debt, what do you want now?" He immediately demands and doesn't bother to mask his irritation.

"Did I stutter?"

Malik shrugs the jibe away with ease.

"No. But neither do you make sense. I wonder what you could possibly want from me."

"Nothing's stopping you from turning away a request." Altaïr says and Malik can't trace an inflection in his voice.

Malik is certain there is an oblique intention in the way he speaks, one that he can't bother to think about.

He has a handful seconds of silent gaze to spare before he turns and hurries to catch his ride.

He marches on and doesn't look back.

On the vacant parking lot of the translation company, Altaïr sighs and returns to his car.

The denial stings, but it's bearable.

Malik's lashes hurt, but Altaïr rests assured with knowledge that it's the same man he had met in the mansion.

* * *

The following evening, Altaïr is there again, leaning casually against his car when Malik spots him.

Malik's path leads him unerringly towards Altaïr's general direction—

"A word, if I may?"

—and past him.

When he is on a fair distance he heaves a tired sigh and doesn't turn to see Altaïr bringing his hands up to light another cigarette.

The mafioso didn't have his hopes raised, but it stings nonetheless.

* * *

On the third day, Malik can't stand his presence anymore.

His colleagues don't weave plots yet and Malik can at least be relieved for Altaïr subtlety. He doesn't wish to venture into the trap of pondering how Altaïr had acquired information about his late shifts, but at least he shows up when a swarming day has simmered down to the most diligent or those fallen behind schedules. He parks his expensive car when the parking lot is vacant, save for a few itinerant vehicles.

On the third day is when Altaïr grows more persistent. Malik has barely left the building when the mafioso accosts him. Perhaps he is even hoping for some wonder or miracle, or a stroke of luck.

"I won't find rest until you speak to me." He firmly insists.

Malik is too tired for any kind of exchange and lifts a sluggish eyebrow at Altaïr's stubbornness.

"This may come as a shock to you, but I don't care."

Altaïr meets his disinterest without a flinch.

"I need to talk to you." Altaïr persists with a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

"_I_ need a lot of things. Doesn't mean I get to have them."

Altaïr is silent for a split moment, and then:

"What would you like?"

Malik can't brush off the silly image of a scarred tooth fairy out of his head.

He laughs in Altaïr's face.

* * *

Malik is nursing a lemonade long turned into tepid slush when Kadar sets himself snugly into the couch beside him. His brother's side is warm against his flank and his presence lulls Malik into a state of somnolent reverie as he stares blankly at the TV.

"A few days have turned into two weeks... What does he _want_?" Malik wonders aloud because no matter how he turns it over, it's bothersome and it just _doesn't make any sense_.

"A word with you?" Kadar grins to spite him and it does little to assuage his burgeoning anxiety.

"Don't be ridiculous. It suits your otherwise, but now's not the time."

"Think on it." Kadar shifts to face him, suddenly engrossed with the subject, "Altaïr is a reasonable man. When he's not miring people neck-deep in shit."

"Very persuasive, really."

"Spare me the sarcasm, _akhi_. Maybe the poor soul just wants a date or somethin'?" says Kadar, and the fact that it's _him_ suggesting this feels like a slap to the face. Not because the idea is comical, but because Malik's mind had already conjured up the same image during the course of the past week and recognizing his wild suspicions on Kadar's loose tongue means somewhat of a confirmation.

"At least the hot gene seems to run in the family..." The younger of the two reassures, and in that mindless prospect, at least, Malik _can_ concur.

"You're not even into men." Malik remembers when his mind drifts back to focus.

"Nah." Kadar's expression looks like a bastard babe of fluster and embarrassment, "I might be a teeny-weeny bit into Aveline though."

Malik deadpans.

"She could crush your balls with a look."

"_Ouch_."

* * *

Kadar's words hit him with their full force when he encounters Altaïr at the set off of the third week.

He leaves earlier to visit the gym and artificial light is not yet a necessity. He can see Altaïr just nicely in the setting glow. And _see_ he does.

His eyes zero in on an expected sight which quickly turns unexpected.

Altaïr pushes easily off the car and unfurls himself like some lazy cat waking up from its nap in a move that Malik can only deem as a sensuous stretch. The mafioso is probably (definitely) aware of the way his shirt hugs _every_ muscle in ways which are entirely and altogether _illegal_, but Malik's gaze roves over his form and he finds shame in the way his greedy eyes follow the stretch with rapt attention.

He does it discreetly, of course, with furtive glances at poor shirt's sorry attempts to cover up the lines of his torso and Malik curses his libido, his hormones, his eyes and ears, but most of all he curses that handsome motherfucker.

He quickens the step when his track nears the man and forcibly pulls his eyes away, but Altaïr stretches the last of his kinks out of his back with a moan and Malik just about _implodes_.

His stomach tightens with desire.

He figures Altaïr's body will bear one last little reconnaissance, just a quick look, and ogles again until he is aware of Altaïr's expression.

Altaïr positively _grins_.

To trounce the indignation at being discovered Malik seethes and puts his imagination to work— anything to keep him from running his fist straight into the idiot's face. He pictures the scarred set of lips readily around his cock, his hands sunk in Altaïr's short hair while he makes the bastard choke on his dick.

This does little to kill the growing problem in his pants. Malik slows into a saunter only because there is a subtle limp in his gait.

He averts his gaze until his attention is far removed from anything to do with Altaïr's physique and walks past because it sets his blood to boil and he can't stand to watch him anymore.

It's no secret to him that Altaïr is nicely built, but the gym he frequents offers and array of body types to admire and none has sparked Malik's nerves as much as the sight of this damned man.

* * *

Today, Malik is horny when he leaves the office.

More so than usually. Or ever.

A fitful dream he can't begin to qualify leaves him in sweat and guilt that morning, and he's not surprised but very much bitter about the fact that it mostly involves Altaïr.

Today, his body seems to thrill on the prospect of Altaïr's proximity and Malik is livid with the idea. His mind and body shouldn't be at such a gaping discrepancy.

His stomach knots up in ways he doesn't appreciate, but, today, Malik walks past his nightmare without a flinch and with many a doubt.

* * *

Malik wishes there were a more unobtrusive route of escape, but there is none. All roads lead to the entrance-and-exit doors. Altaïr probably knows this and parks where he does.

He sees no other way out of this predicament than confrontation.

Half a month's time has passed since Altaïr begun assailing the car lot before his workplace in hope of striking up a conversation. Half a month is what it takes Malik to recognize that he has allowed Altaïr to creep under his skin deep enough to make it an itch. Half a month after Malik realizes that he is, in fact, an idiot.

"Is it sex you want?" He drops the bombshell once he stops before Altaïr that evening. He delights in Altaïr's astonishment at being approached, fleeting as it is.

Malik knows he is wanted for sex, among other things, but it's easier to pretend the bastard only wants sex.

Altaïr's eyes fall to the side and he mulls his answer over because he is caught unaware.

"I'd be lying if I said no, but that's not what I want."

"Then what?"

Altaïr's eyes narrow into a matching scowl.

"Think, idiot, it's not that hard to figure out."

"Who are you calling idiot, dumbass?"

Altaïr forfeits the argument that threatens to unfold and sighs in dismissal. "We can trade barbs or talk like two adults, it's your choice." He finishes in a placating tone.

Malik sneers even when he finds himself agreeing with the man.

"Why would I talk to a killer?"

"Are we not conversing already?"

"No, because for a coherent conversation at least one has to know where it's headed. And we're both stumbling around like blind men." Malik poignantly lessons.

"It seems to me you do want a conversation or else you wouldn't let some unoriginal bait get to you." Malik opens his mouth to retort but Altaïr cuts him off, "And we don't harm innocents."

"Organized crime can be fought in peaceful ways, too." Malik argues.

"With controlled media and conditioned apathy? Sorry, but it's a shitty world we live in."

"It's a shitty world we've made for ourselves. Society is the product of the people in it and awareness can bring about change." Malik maintains only because he wants to break through Altaïr's thick skull.

"A man is not what he thinks, but what he does."

"And the evidence thus far suggests you're the idiot."

Altaïr's eyes harden at the insult.

He looks like he's holding back slurs of like nature. Unsaid words twist inside of him painfully and he sets his mouth into a grim line. He surrenders pride for conversation, but Malik knows only a fraction of his sacrifice.

"Contract killings or human trafficking—it's all fucking same." Malik revisits his earlier point and Altaïr is sure somewhere in between there is an insult, too.

A faraway look dims amber eyes just slightly before Altaïr's expressionless mask comes up. The swell of spleen inside Malik doesn't dwindle only because a hollow shell of a man switches places with Altaïr for a few moments.

"Our cause is far nobler than that."

"It's only loan sharking and murder then. Well, that makes it better." Malik delivers the line absolutely deadpan.

"Yes. No drugs, human organs trafficking or prostitution."

"What you did to me seemed very much sex-related."

"Because—" _we don't know how to approach those outside the boundaries of jungle. Because we only play by the rules of the jungle._

Altaïr abandons his initial intentions with a heavy heart and replaces his dubious expression with a cold, hard glare. He drops the glare quickly thereafter.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Not really." Malik frowns at the subject change.

"Yeah, me neither." Altaïr's mouth quirks at the side, "Yet… I think that might have been the first time I got hard just by looking at a face."

Malik stares at the unabashed smirk on scarred lips.

His thoughts cannibalize each other until there's no survivor and he has none to offer in the face of Altaïr's confession.

"Romantic..."

* * *

Lady Luck doesn't favor Malik today either.

Rain is not falling as much as _pouring_ from the sky by the time he leaves his office next evening.

His face twists in annoyance when he stops to a halt beneath the portico and tries to pack away a medley of emotions. His eyes search out Altaïr and, sure enough, he finds the empty stretch of grounds blemished by one lone presence.

Altaïr waits outside the car with an umbrella dull as the color of the skies.

Malik is bereft of such luxury, but it does little to stop him from walking past Altaïr bareheaded. At least he left his laptop back at the office.

The company's flashy name shines down on the back of his head and Altaïr's tight face. The mafioso has shed his mask and looks more humane tonight.

Malik wrenches his look away as he walks on, with lowered eye, so he wouldn't see Altaïr's face. He concentrates on the grating sensation of the downpour soaking into his hair and clothes to avoid catching Altaïr's hopeful look. He is brimming with compassion today, and seeing a reflection of personal wants on Altaïr's face would crumble his determination.

His thoughts funnel away into a cluster of sympathy and he curses himself to damnation, and Kadar for polishing his empathetic skills into perfection.

Today it's anything but easy to leave the man in the grasp of solitude, but he brushes the reasons aside for later consideration.

He swears he can feel Altaïr's eyes on himself on his way to the nearest bus station, but when he turns to look over his shoulder, Altaïr's car is gone.

* * *

Kadar is on his usual trail to feeding the waste-bin garbage when a sight meant for his eye catches his attention in front of their apartment complex. In a middle-class area of the city where they dwell, a car like this sticks out like a sore thumb.

Up on the last floor where Malik and he live, the flat is unattended and unlocked. The mist of rain that remained after the deluge gathers across his face and Kadar hopes this distraction won't last for long.

Altaïr is a sorry sight to behold. At least for Kadar who has seen his visage on better days.

Even now, Altaïr's mere presence implies danger, but his posture is tense, a sullen expression on his face, a dull look in duller ambers. He looks like a man who desperately needs sleep and Kadar can count the dark lines that cut deep under his eyes.

"Evening." He greets cooly and wonders what the mafioso wants.

For all his naivete, Kadar is not stupid; he assumes it's him Altaïr wants to talk to since it will take a while yet for Malik's bus to arrive.

He lets the heavy lid fall back onto the trash can and dusts his hands off on old jeans.

He waits for Altaïr to speak.

"I know you owe me nothing, but I've come for advice, if you find yourself willing enough to answer."

Kadar nods and silence stretches on for a while.

"I don't find it easy to say this. And I wouldn't tell it to just anyone." Altaïr stalls and fiddles with something in his pockets where his hands rest. Kadar is patient—something Altaïr is not but is set out to acquire. "It concerns your brother."

Kadar has expected as much and waits for Altaïr to enlighten him. When he speaks, his voice is low and avoiding attention.

"He is quick to set ablaze and slow to temper. While it's something I admire, I fear I can't use it to my advantage."

The qualities of his brother's character are no mystery to the Syrian and he stubbornly waits in silence until there's a question he can give answer to.

"I can't seem to find a method that would draw his attention to me, the kind more favorable to my cause."

"What's your question?"

Altaïr's gaze falls to the pavement while he mulls his thoughts over.

"Can you speak to him? Can you make him speak to me?"

"He won't listen." Kadar retorts right away, certain in his statement. It's a small condolence to Altaïr, that much he knows. But his brother comes first and foremost and whatever he decides to choose, it must be a result of _his_ choice.

"With Malik you can't use force. He likes to keep reigns close at hand and whatever you expect from him must come on his own free will."

"When will that be?"

"Whenever he decides it's time." Kadar shrugs dismissively.

In the dim light he sees the bunching outline of muscle and tendon as Altaïr silently works his jaw. He's either at a loss of words or biting back words he would later regret.

"So you won't help me?"

"I can't."

The younger of the two heaves a sigh and cards his hand through his hair now layered with a spray of light rain. He looks to the side towards the building entrance in tacit dismissal, thinking it's the last of their conversation.

"Look at me." Altaïr's icy voice calls for attention and Kadar spares him some, though his interest is quickly fading now that Altaïr's presence isn't imminent threat.

"I won't forget a favor done." Altaïr pauses, "but I also won't forget if you refuse to do a favor."

Kadar feels a bit bitter about the hint of intimidation, but he tries to talk from non-biased grounds (though he will always be biased, always favoring his brother).

"I owe you nothing, Altaïr. Whatever _you_ owe is Malik's debt to collect."

But for small cosmetic changes, the mafioso is indeed same as Kadar last had seen him. For some inscrutable reason, the man is warmed to Malik's attention, but he is as he always was: a cold, dead, glacial danger.

Kadar shifts on his feet and waits for his departure in renewed silence.

Altaïr reluctantly leaves and feels none the wiser.


	4. Kill Me Before Death Ch 4

It's two days after when Malik next sees Altaïr.

He is parked a short distance away from where he usually stops and leaning against a rage of a car. It's a vehicle different from Altaïr's, equally posh, and sleek with elegant curves.

Today, Altaïr is the embodiment of calm when Malik looks him over on his way to the station. When he is close enough that he can be reached within a few steps, Altaïr approaches him. Malik almost winces in alarm from the unexpected touch when Altaïr takes his hand to pull it up and twists below his wrist to turn it into a cup.

Next thing he knows, there is a jangle of keys as Altaïr puts the set into his open palm and finds no fault in it. In fact, he looks rather smug and pleased with himself.

"It's yours." Altaïr gestures to the car behind him.

Malik's gaze drops to the offending item in his hand, then flickers up to the mafioso. He has what is probably the worst case of are-you-fucking-kidding-me since he started working as a translator and editor-in-chief of his department and has a difficult time settling for an appropriate reaction from the array of responses that flit through his head.

"I don't want it." He finally says. He tosses the keys onto the pavement with a snap of his wrist and the tinny clank against the concrete is satisfying to his ears. He imagines the mafioso gaping behind his back after he resumes walking.

A little recovered from the shock of Malik's rejection, Altaïr scoops the keys from the ground and follows after him. Malik senses his presence and twists around to put a stop to the pursuit.

"I don't fucking want it. Fall from sight."

"You don't want a car?" Altaïr asks in bewilderment while he's trying to wrap his brain around the notion.

"I want my old one!" Malik roars, feels a bitter wash of frustration seep through him.

"Impossible. I've looked into it, it's already been sold in parts."

Acid is churning in Malik's stomach at the thought.

"What else have you looked into, hm? My job? My life? My urinalysis?"

He is pissed and it's ill-concealed. Altaïr refuses to answer and it makes him ill and furious. He attempts to kick the feeling aside because he is sure it hurts no one else but him.

"Do me a favor and go eat a bag of dicks, will you?" He concludes and turns to leave while there's still time to catch up with his ride.

"It seems everything I do troubles you." Altaïr complains loud enough for him to get wind of it.

"Reflect on that." He grumbles to no one, "You've only yourself to blame."

* * *

Malik continues to seethe with dormant rage on the following day.

At this point, he is not sure if he needs sleep, sex or to punch someone in the face.

It feels to him like he is just waiting for a trigger that would set free all he yearns to unleash, and when he spots Altaïr in the same place, same time, he feels like an owl that has just spotted a napping rabbit. Altaïr is clearly in a bad mood, too. Malik can't blame him, but can't sympathize much either, since it was Altaïr who caused all this.

"I should long have charged you for harassment and stalking. I'm too lenient with you."

"Like you're too lenient with your brother?"Altaïr counters without as much as a blink.

Malik feels fresh anger roil through his veins and has to clench his fists to keep from wrapping his hands around the fool's neck.

"You can't wrap siblings in cotton wool their entire life. He was allowed his own choices and a chance to welcome freedom and responsibility." Malik explains even when he can't fathom why he needs to justify his motives to Altaïr.

"Yes and we see where it got him."

"_What_?"

"I said—"

"I heard what you said," Malik interrupts harshly and anger comes back tenfold, "Explain yourself."

Altaïr's eyes trail off to the side before re-settling on him.

"No, forget it. I yield. It's something I just randomly uttered."

"_Altaïr _—"

"Stop there. You're seeking conflict where none exist, I'm really not entertained by our discussion."

Malik's thoughts immediately latch onto his last words.

"You're projecting. I'm not here to _entertain _you, so I couldn't give a shit." He invests a world of scorn into the word.

"You're splitting hairs."

"And you're picking endless minor loopholes because you're a shit-stirring idiot."

"I can twist words all day too, asshole. I grew out of it when I realized it's more rewarding to have a relevant, intelligent conversation." Altaïr snaps once he can speak without anger clogging his throat.

"If you don't want to keep talking then just fuck off and never return. It's obvious you've no idea what you're talking about, otherwise you would have at least tried to explain yourself."

The mafioso straightens himself and puts on a steady scowl.

"You just assumed you're perfect and everyone else is a dickhead so there's no point in trying to explain." Altaïr pulls his hands out of his pockets and looks like he's over and done with, "I give up. Fucking _hell_, Malik, the density of you is incredible it surpasses black holes, I'm surprised light can survive around you."

Malik curls his lip slightly, wants to give a scathing retort, and growls before he can stop himself.

Altaïr drives him _mad_.

The move that Altaïr fails to anticipate is the summation of all Malik's pent up anger from the past few weeks. A rush of adrenaline shoots through him as he draws back his right hand and moves forward with a swinging fist. He isn't at a striking distance, his angle is poor, and the punch is not the best he can do, but it's a forewarning of what's to come and he wants to keep it fair.

The blow he strikes crushes across Altaïr's jaw because it's not that vulnerable and it leaves a pretty mark.

Altaïr's body sways sideways but he doesn't lose balance. He is quick to recover, braces himself and pushes off with a growl that chills Malik's blood in ways he doesn't have time to ponder. Of the two of them, Malik is more rusty at combat, but he grins at the challenge and it's an exhilarating feeling that surges deep from his gut when Altaïr launches the attack.

He bolts forward and his power is vicious, but Malik is braced when the impact comes. He solidifies his core so his shoulder doesn't absorb all the impact and the punch doesn't send him reeling backwards when his forearms take up the shock of the strike.

The skies are heavy and people dread another onslaught of torrential rain, so no one is there to see the commotion, and both are equally satisfied with the lack of witnesses.

Altaïr's first attacks are experimental, meant to set grounds and gauge Malik's ability and strength. Malik dodges easily enough, mindful of the car's proximity and the advantages and disadvantages it might present. Altaïr has no appetite to turn this into a long circle and his second lunge is a flurry of attacks. Malik immediately knows his sort. He is agile and fast, and, coupled with strength, it's a most deadly combination. And Altaïr is exactly it.

There's no flailing, kicking or pulling around, just two skilled fighters bent on hurting each other, and it's now evident that the match will be a long one.

Malik's hands are fisted and ready in front of him, he is brimming with pent up energy from skipped gym sessions. He knows he can cut off a blow's power by proximity, but he backs a distance away as quick decisions dawn on him. It would be most advantageous to tackle the mafioso against the car, but his position is off. For this feat he must have Altaïr's back to the vehicle again.

He monitors his moves closely and blocks when Altaïr stabs forward in another sudden attack, but this move alone has put the man off balance and vulnerable to a counter-blow.

Malik spins clockwise and aims an elbow jab at the height of his head or throat, whichever crosses his path first, but Altaïr parries and attacks right back in a fraction of a second. Malik barely manages to dodge his sweeping fist and the power of its kick rushes past his ear in a swoosh. The thrum of Altaïr's power makes his skin tingle.

Malik hurls a tight fist at Altaïr's stomach, aims above the belt-line and lands two consecutive hits at the bottom of his ribcage before his knee follows.

Altaïr doubles over with a grunt.

His head low and in perfect height to ram a knee up, but Malik doesn't want Altaïr's nose pushed up into his brain and it's a stupid way to die anyway. He opts for a rabbit punch that makes the man stagger a handful of steps. Malik knows at least half the amount of Altaïr's ways to kill a man with bare hands and he uses none of them.

When Altaïr rises to assume a fighting stance he seems to be picking up on patience and waits for engagement in hope of a counterattack. Burning ambers seize him up with a strange predatory anticipation and this is getting Malik nowhere. Attacking now is like raising a sword behind your head to try a wide blow—it will end with a sword in your gut. But he never won a fight by defensive action and moving forward deliberately is his defense now. He attacks hoping Altaïr will make a mishap.

Altaïr parries and doesn't attack until there is some vulnerable point on Malik's body. When Malik opens his flank Altaïr rams shoulder-first into him with nothing short of a roar.

Chances are nine to one that Altaïr will get him, and he does.

Malik balances on the balls of his feet and doesn't fall, but the stumble is all Altaïr needs.

What's meant as a swift, hard hook-punch to the side of Malik's jaw misses its target deliberately. Malik's eyes dart to Altaïr's other fist too late and it catches him by surprise although it shouldn't have. His natural reflexes are susceptible enough to fall for the trick and he collects a punch to the face.

Altaïr's blow is solid and the sensation is as jarring and bewildering as he remembers from the military days. Were he a lesser man, he might have ended up with a concussion. Malik's week is shitty, but today he's lucky enough to have his tongue where it ought to be when the the heel of Altaïr's hand gets him off-guard with an upward strike to the bottom of his jaw, and at least there is no blood. When he stretches the muscles of his jaw he doesn't need to touch to know it'll bruise enough to match Altaïr's.

There's other pressing concerns because the vivid whiteness that has assailed his retinas simmers into black and his vision is veiled long enough for Altaïr to take advantage and torque him into a choke hold.

He tries to wrench himself from the grasp but Altaïr pulls back with convincing force. His right goes over Malik's shoulder and grips the back of his skull, his left slips over Malik's left shoulder, reaches across his neck, and grabs his own forearm. He is swift in what he does and the pressure is enough to prolong Malik's visionless state longer than it's comfortable.

Altaïr's breathing is harsh and Malik's is cut off by the pressure on his trachea.

Malik plays dirty because he doesn't want to lose consciousness. His hands don't grasp at Altaïr's in a futile attempt to loosen the hold, but drop behind his back. A startled moan in his ear tells him he got his hand on Altaïr's family jewels but the man relents before Malik's grip can squash the sensitive tissue.

Malik was never aiming for a cold-cock or rupture of vital organs because he wants Altaïr conscious and in pain and he values his life enough to leave Altaïr's balls intact.

He twists in Altaïr's loosening lock and releases the grip on his balls short before head-butting him across face.

Altaïr's hands don't fall to trick in the aftermath and he doesn't leave his stomach exposed this time.

Malik is livid when he gets back into a proper stance, throws his fist forward, puts weight into it, uses the momentum of his shoulder, feigning left then right to draw Altaïr's defense elsewhere, and strikes with vicious determination until the shield of Altaïr's braced forearms is vain against his assault. He favors his right, but it must keep Altaïr in place while his left non-dominant hand targets the summit of his nose. The blow he delivers is not enough to break bone, but a spurt of blood that trickles down his scar and snarling mouth is a sight for sore eyes.

Altaïr's skin is lighter and flushed red with exertion, but he isn't fatigued yet and neither is Malik. Sweat is rising on his skin and a new rush of adrenaline that makes him giddy.

He has only a second to gloat.

Altaïr sprints away towards his own car, launches himself against the door in a kick and twists off and back at him in a move that just has to be the craziest shit Malik has ever seen. Ever.

The man, the _beast_, is diving at him from above, having used a side surface as a fucking springboard, and Malik considers himself lucky indeed for acting quick enough to let himself fall backwards and out of range. Altaïr is growling at squandered chance even before his feet absorb the shock of the fall and Malik almost misses his first real chance to tackle him because his brain is still nonplussed at the image of _Altaïr fucking leaping at him_.

His body is quicker than his mind when he kicks off ground, hands braced for impact and weight, because the timing is _perfect_, and Altaïr is still rising to full height when Malik lunges forward. He bends at the waist before he crashes into Altaïr, hands wrapping around his middle in a vice grip. The impact carries their combined weight against the side Altaïr had leapt from and there is a dull thud as they slam into the car.

The collision is enough to leave them both winded and bereft of breath; Malik is first to recover.

They grapple before Malik locates Altaïr's hands, however clumsy, and pins them to the car roof easily enough only because Altaïr allows it. The mafioso pants into his face and his torso heaves with labored breath under Malik's. The sight of him—sweaty, his chest rising and falling with breaths of exertion, fists pinned above his head—is attractive to behold.

Altaïr smells of sandalwood and trouble, a mix that goes well together. It's the scent that cajoles Malik into having a taste of the spark that flares so easily between them.

This time when Malik gives Altaïr what he wants, it's entirely voluntary.

Altaïr opens his mouth to relieve the pressure against his lips, but welcomes the rough sting of Malik's kiss with a low moan. The reaction is every bit as fierce as Malik expects from Altaïr and not nearly enough of what he needs from the man.

He unpins Altaïr and drags hands down his forearms, past his elbows and settles on his waist and Altaïr's eager fingers dig into Malik's sides and pull him against his crotch. His hands are greedy, his kiss demanding, and the scorching heat of blind fury dissipates into warm arousal.

Malik wedges a knee between Altaïr's legs and shoves him more firmly against the car, allows himself to slide into the cradle of the man's hips when Altaïr opens his thighs astride to provide a fit for him. Altaïr's lips yield but remain eager under his own. He digs into the muscle cord of his back and Malik growls lowly in response to Altaïr's rough touch.

He fucking hates him for getting so easily under his skin.

It's insane.

Whatever toys with him makes him want to beat Altaïr into a bloody pulp one minute and rip his clothes off in the next.

Another groan rumbles from the depths of his throat and he dives in for a harsh kiss, bites at Altaïr's lips as if to punish him for making him want it. Altaïr's nose doesn't seem to be bleeding anymore but the scent of blood lingers heavy in the air between them. Malik tilts to gain deeper access, bucks into him, eats the moan off Altaïr's lips.

The responsive sound makes Malik think of Altaïr spread beneath him and the flashback is enough to get his cock hard. Arousal settles deep in his gut and branches out to the rest of his body and his hunger for sex is excruciating.

Malik's insistent thrusts are met halfway until their bodies have more or less settled into an artless agreement of rough rutting. His voice of reason is drowned out by a scream of his libido and he bites into the scar, presses his entire front into Altaïr until they are one body.

His mind is a mesh of giddy excitement and consternation in the short intervals he's aware that he is _rutting_ with Altaïr on a _parking lot_, but his brain is too convulsed with lust to stop himself from a steady grind against Altaïr's thickening erection.

He delves into the velvety heat of Altaïr's mouth and feels the warmth of Altaïr's body through the cotton of his shirt. It seeps into his cold hands and under his skin. The man is ice, but his body is ever so warm. He feels the prickle of Altaïr's five o'clock shadow when he nips against the side of jaw he had bruised earlier.

"You want me, you fucking bastard." Altaïr whispers darkly and Malik feels his sultry breath across his own sore jaw.

Malik's lust is thick as honey and heat churns in his gut, but even when his body reacts positively to Altaïr's proximity, he pushes away.

When he begins to distance himself Altaïr's hands are a steady pressure against his back and draw him back in.

Altaïr is wrapped around him, inside him, and it's far from the most painful thing he's received today, but the hold _hurts_ in ways that rip and shred at Malik's insides. His head is in absolute disarray and he breathes himself slowly into a farce of semblance.

He retreats when he can't stand the stifling heat between them any longer.

Altaïr's mouth unhinges slowly, but by the time he finds words, Malik is already halfway across the parking lot.

* * *

"You fight well." Altaïr admits the next time they face each other. The blast of yesterday's anger has boiled down to vivid clarity of the event.

Malik stands before him and looks down at the offered cigarette before he shares a drag with the mafioso. The last time he indulged he doesn't care to remember and the smoke is an unwelcome evocation of memories and a welcome bitterness in his mouth.

"It shouldn't surprise you. I did say I was in the army," says Malik as he hands back the cigarette and blows off residual smoke.

There's an unsightly discoloration on the side of Altaïr's jaw that matches the mottle on Malik's own face. The questions have been plentiful today, but he had managed to evade.

"You've nerves coming here."

"Why are you so bent on turning your head from me?"

"I've nothing to discuss with you."

"I'm not here to discuss." Altaïr crushes what's left of the cigarette beneath his shoe before his eyes flicker up to study the Syrian for a handful of moments, "Malik... What happened back then, was it so bad? Did I treat you too unkind?" he asks and Malik needs a second to realize that he is referring to the events at the villa, "Kadar is lucky he stumbled upon me—had it been any other mafia, he would be past. The both of you."

Malik begrudgingly admits to himself there is some sense to Altaïr's jabber.

"What had happened had been forgiven, but it surely has not been forgotten." Malik says and swallows around the large lump in his throat before he continues, "I want nothing to do with you." He reiterates before his eyes rivet on the heated gaze across him.

"If you're making money peddling nonsense, well done, you're parting fools from their money. But don't assume you can sell me the same bullshit. I know what I've seen."

"And what is it exactly that you've seen which eludes my scrutiny, hm?" Malik drawls.

"Lust in you. Lust for me. Yesterday, and back at the villa while we fucked—"

"—I was doing what was _demanded_ of me." Malik manages to dodge the hot surge to his cheeks and he is most proud of that. He represses the urge to lean over and throttle the man.

"I've had the misfortune to lay with sluts, I know the difference between sham and lust for _me_. Once you drop your clothes and pretense with it, it's too late to wonder why you've shed it." Altaïr clarifies, calling Malik's sincerity into question.

There is a pause as Malik flounders for words to express his astonishment.

"You think too highly of yourself. And you're clearly mistaken." He listens to himself say.

"You think I'm projecting? What about the way you pulled and pawed at me—"

"You've _told_ me not to lie like a 'sack of dirt'!"

"—which does nothing to explain why you kissed me or the reverence in your eyes when you fucked m—"

Malik shoots out to grab the man by his stupid white shirt and shove him against the car in an echo of yesterday.

Altaïr staggers back against the driver's door, but the vicious press of Malik's lips stings more than his aching ribs. His nostrils flare as he takes a breath and launches an attempt to shove Malik off, but the Syrian isn't easy to subdue and wrestles Altaïr against the machine with a snarl. Malik hears an answering growl, but the struggle is short-lived because Altaïr seems to subdue to his own demons instead as he parts his mouth and welcomes Malik's tongue against his own.

Their hands start to move, harshly, roughly against each other in urgency before one of them is in need of proper air.

"Mistaken, am I?" Altaïr's words are heavy with humid breath and thick with growing lust, "No man can behold me with such a wanton look and live to say he's not interested."

Malik swallows and holds still. He lets the words pass, and the thrill they send up his spine.

He craves nothing more than to pound Altaïr senseless on this very car, but the better man in him wins and waits until he's sure he can speak in a voice that has some semblance of resolution.

"You have stepped over the line." He hisses in low tones.

"And I was _glad_ to do it."

Next thing he feels is Altaïr's mouth upon him and he counters with matching aggression, bites hard into where his scar rests and feels Altaïr's lips stretch into a smirk beneath his teeth.

"Let's not get violent again." Altaïr taunts after Malik leaves him bloody. He flicks his tongue in his customary way across the bloody trickle on his scar.

Malik fists his hands in Altaïr's white shirt, but releases the hold soon thereafter.

He falls back a distance.

Altaïr doesn't follow but looks as if something he had wanted desperately has just been yanked from his grasp.

"Go away." Malik asks.

"No."

"Just. _Go_." Malik pleads.

Everything that has permeated their encounters so far drops and Altaïr stands there nothing like the brute he used to be, but a beast turned into a fledgling. The layer of danger sheds from him like a snake's skin and he is open before him like any earthly man with hope in eyes.

"I'll go. But I'll return."

Malik will lie because he will say what Altaïr already expects, not what his confused self wants to say.

"Don't." He orders even when his stomach clenches at the thought.

There is no guarantee that Altaïr and he would last.

It's no different than putting his hand in fire and hoping it won't hurt.

* * *

Malik feels that these apologies for trysts are starting to take a different turn.

The night is creeping up the sky when Malik finally leaves for home. He had grabbed a quick snack from a vending machine before leaving the office, but his appetite is only whetted and his stomach roars for further nourishment.

Exhaustion is making him drowsy by the time he catches sight of Altaïr on his usual spot. The streetlight across the road sheds a halo around Altaïr's head, but eclipses his face in shadows.

Malik is tired. While he walks he's scowling at no one in particular and his gaze doesn't linger long enough to see Altaïr's reaction as he walks up to his car and leans against the backseat window in utter silence. They recline on the same side of the car, a distance between them which is not extensive enough for Malik's liking. The two of them share a silence on the darkened parking lot. Altaïr is patient (for once) and waits for Malik's words. Truly a difference from the time at the villa.

Malik aims a look to the right and studies him for a long moment. The quiet makes Altaïr uncomfortable, he quickly notes. From this angle he doesn't seem as miserable as the other day, but quite like a forlorn beast braced for the inevitable impact of a leash.

Slipping a blank mask on, Malik feels better prepared to face him.

"Why do you trouble me today?"

Altaïr fidgets with his answer.

"You must be starving. There's a restaurant nearby. Dinner's on me." His voice is low and hopeful towards the end.

A man who wouldn't scruple to kill and take a life now hesitates beside him. It's a strange thing to observe and Malik decides not to linger on it.

His eyes unknowingly drop down to where his fingers are shredding the supplementary white napkin of the bland toast-sandwich he wolfed. Some scraps escape, but most remain in the loose hold of his fist.

When Malik's response to his offer presents itself in the form of silence, Altaïr sighs.

"Malik, you must listen to me." He asks in a smoother voice, but is still coiled with reluctance and hopeful of the answer.

"I'm listening." Malik assures in a weary voice.

"You may think yourself indifferent or resentful, or both, but the way you react and respond to me suggests otherwise."

A half-hearted quirk of lips is the most enthusiastic reaction Malik can offer in terms of bodily response.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever makes you sleep at night."

"If you truly were disinterested, you'd have ignored me entirely."

"I _did_ ignore you." Malik maintains with a spark of objection, but doesn't lift his gaze.

"A couple of times out of a dozen," Malik counts two breaths before Altaïr continues, "either something is preventing you or you're preventing yourself from accepting your wishes."

Malik deflates only slightly.

"How long have you rehearsed that speech?" He butts in when Altaïr opens his mouth to speak again.

"Leonardo told me." He admits.

Malik falls quiet.

He doesn't seek words for a long time, but he lets the silence stretch on because it's a peaceful one for him and heavy with anticipation for Altaïr.

Malik now feels comfortable confessing to himself that he enjoys seeing him squirm. In all kinds of ways. But he curses himself for ever insisting to come with Kadar. He curses ever having met this damned man. He would have lived without worries in blissful ignorance, but all that is wishful thinking now. Now that he knows what he's missing out on.

Malik is slowly coming to the uncomfortable realization that he is interested in this man in ways that go beyond sex.

A mystery pains him which makes no sense.

There's no sense that he should deny himself Altaïr when he does desire him. When he can have him. There's no sense that what he desires is in a faraway world he doesn't want to cross. There's no sense that he had allowed Altaïr to leave such an impact on him and wreak more havoc on his body and mind in so short a time than anyone before. There's no sense that he used to love and care for other people, but none have ignited his very being or clouded his judgement like this man.

There_ is_ sense, because love doesn't make any.

And it's been so damn long since he's had someone to love beside friends and Kadar.

But he knows what he gains and what he loses with Altaïr, and it's not pretty.

Beside him, Altaïr is quiet and uncomfortable. He knows Malik understands more than he lets on but Malik doesn't speak and this tells him a lot.

Malik finally lifts his gaze from the massacre he's made in his hands and gives Altaïr a side-glance. His head is lowered and ambers have taken cover behind a heavy droop of thick lashes. In his lair, Altaïr is on his territory, shielded by his pack. Here, before Malik, Altaïr isn't protected by anything.

Malik is gleefully aware of his advantage. The power he has over Altaïr he had wielded freely and on whims that were subject to his fickle temper.

Perhaps he had hoped that it's his temper that would chase Altaïr away, but the man seems drawn by something else he deems valuable in Malik and vaults over his temper easily enough.

It can't just be physical attraction, of that Malik is fairly sure. Altaïr's reasons may be strange, but they're not as petty as that.

Despite having initiated this conversation, Malik stalls a trifle awkwardly, wondering if he should broach a potentially tricky subject.

Altaïr liked him then and likes him now.

"Why, Altaïr?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Altaïr heaves a sigh and expects his own failure right from the outset.

"You're clean in a way I can never be. You glow with defiance, but you're the sort of fire that scorches in daylight and smolders down to warm embers at night—"

Malik gives a laugh because it's absurd how well the imagery describes him in ways Altaïr isn't even aware of.

"—you know secrets I haven't yet voiced, secrets I've kept from my own self."

"You give me too much credit. I don't know you that good." Malik quips in.

"But you speak like you do."

Between the two of them, it's Malik who turns reluctant now. Altaïr is the one who acts cautious, but it's Malik who feels cautious. He had a hesitant start and has a hesitant continuation.

The new stretch of silence is of different kind that Altaïr intuitively knows heralds something bad.

"I won't settle for _you_." Malik whispers after rising to steady feet.

"If it's perfection you seek, you won't find it anywhere."

Malik shows torn bits of paper into his pocket and firmly shakes his head.

"There's no chance for us, no chance to bridge the gaps. Our love would be an abomination."

Behind him, Altaïr sighs at the unconvinced tone of Malik's voice.

"Perhaps. But walking away now would be worse than love."

* * *

The weekend that separates them gives Malik time to think but does little to clear his head.

On Monday evening, when only a handful colleagues remain in the building, Malik delays leaving the office for a number of reasons. First, there is the matter of Altaïr and their unfinished conversation. The knowledge that he owes the man an answer leaves him numb with an underlying anxiety, leaves him curious, nervous, and then suddenly afraid. Then, there is the matter of rainfall.

Each time he glances through the window of the neighboring office, he sees Altaïr standing down below. The sky opens up further and showers rain over them, and each time Malik hopes Altaïr has left.

The last time he looks through the glass he sees Altaïr still standing in the rain, soaked like a lost pup.

He calls it a day and packs up under the cover of preventing Altaïr from catching pneumonia, but there is an excited churning in his gut, an anxiousness that spreads in a slow crawl while he walks over to him equally bareheaded.

They stand in poor light, but Malik welcomes the veil of dark. The drizzle had lasted long enough that there isn't anyone around to avoid, but it conceals them from curious gazes that still dare to wander.

"You said Leonardo believes either something's hindering me or I'm doing it myself. It's actually a mix of both."

His voice is too loud to his own ears.

"I can't forgive you for the peace and safety you've robbed me of… but," Altaïr's eyes dart up and expect mercy, "I can give you a chance to rectify your past mistakes." Malik finishes and hopes he doesn't sound too haughty since that was not his aim.

Something in Altaïr's expression is fighting for outbreak through the wall of his mask, but once his joy makes itself known, Altaïr can't hide it anymore. The emotion that seeps through in the form of a smile is a mixture of relief and glee, and a release of stress and anxiety.

Malik can't part his eyes from it because it's ephemeral and might soon fade and he wants to watch each slant of it before it withers into a straight line.

"Forgive me," says Altaïr, "A wave of happiness amidst an ocean of bitterness is a rare thing I'm unused to."

When Malik leans forward, Altaïr's full lips are wet and supple against his own and rain never felt this good.

The kiss is languid and lingers, tastes of rain and unspoken words.

They are swathed in night's dark clothes and soaked to bone. Altaïr's shirt is dripping but he feels hot to the touch. His musky, spicy scent mixes with rain and makes Malik high on Altaïr tonight.

The kiss remains slow, generates a lust that courses his body in gentle waves and burns in a lazy manner. He feels Altaïr's flexing grip against the muscles in his back go slack short before his hands make a detour down to the small of his back, pulling Malik in and into him until he is intensely aware of the tight mesh of their bodies.

It feels good to be held like this.

What he would get with Altaïr seems a trifle beside the mountain of loss. Yet it isn't.

He will want more of this. He will miss it.

It's warm, then freezing, it's rough and gentle, it's all at once.

Altaïr's hands wrap around him, cage him in and it gets strange, too. One minute he feels oddly sheltered, like a downy chick under the wing of an eagle, and another he feels like the eagle itself.

Malik pulls his open mouth away from Altaïr's, lets his lips brush teasingly against scarred ones, and Altaïr's kiss rests pleasantly on his tongue. Their breaths pant out heavily against each other, warm and moist and mixing between them in the drizzle that morphed into mist.

Malik swallows, tries to moderate his breath enough so that he can talk.

"Before you came I was satisfied with my lot in life…"

"It's your fault." Altaïr accuses in a whisper, "and mine. Yours because you made yourself bait, and mine because I was tempted enough to bite. I've tried to ignore it, let it pass. I thought if I were to remove you from my sight, I would forget."

"Why didn't it work?"

"Do sun or moon disappear when they set?"

Malik cradles Altaïr's jaw and studies his face, watches all the nuances that he hadn't been able to see back at the villa. His irises are as light as ever and stand out against dilated pupils.

"You're awfully poetic for a murderer." Malik says and pets along the uplift of Altaïr's lips.

"Leonardo's bad influence, I'm afraid."

Altaïr leans forward to taste more, because he can't sate his craving. His right skims over Malik's side and his left hand passes over the inward curve of his spine and comes to rest at the small of his back again.

There's a moment of stillness, and then hot air washes across Malik's neck, a warning, a prelude of what is to come before a warm mouth latches onto his skin.

A tingle skitters across his neck where Altaïr has touched, goosebumps rise across his skin he can't blame on the evening chill. He shifts to refit their bodies, Altaïr opens up for the blend. He nips a nice spot below his ear and replaces it with a kiss that forces a rush of breath from Malik. He feels the vibration of Altaïr's nasal chuckle against his shoulder. Altaïr's mouth is ravenous on his neck and he feels feverish.

He's caught between pushing at his chest and baring his throat for further attention. He likes it, likes how Altaïr is taking his time to enjoy him. Malik's fingers stroke through the short length of Altaïr's wet hair, rakes against his scalp, dig into the fine hairs on his nape, pressing him lower into the hollow of his throat.

Altaïr slowly works his way up and Malik's breath begins to hitch the longer he allows Altaïr to work his magic against the arc of his neck. He doesn't bite anymore, but nuzzles and presses wet kisses where he has access to skin. Malik's right hand is firmly set against Altaïr's chest, in the valley between his pecs, not pushing, but ready for the right moment to push.

Altaïr parts from the deeply-pressed kiss he is administering to when the pressure of Malik's hand is hard enough. The lack of weight leaves Altaïr with disappointment he doesn't voice, he pulls at the small of his back lest Malik tries to disentangle himself, but Malik doesn't intend to.

"Have you ever thought about abandoning this kind of life?" He asks knowing he is wading into potentially painful territory.

"I was born into it. It's the only life I've ever known. There's this fascination with this kind of life I never understood because it was just my everyday life."

Now that Altaïr's hands have stopped wandering, Malik feels a light shiver creep under his skin which is not surprising at all.

"But you must have thought of not participating in it, at least?"

"Of course," Altaïr whispers into his ear, "but I was left absent choice. This pressure is exerted in all sorts of ways, on all sorts of levels, but it's exerted most basically this way: those who refuse to take a place do not get fed."

Malik absorbs his words.

It had occurred to Malik that Altaïr's initial way of approach had little to do with social awkwardness and ineptness, but when the real answer points itself out to him he feels a shock suffuse his mind and it hits him like a ton of bricks.

Altaïr had been trying to tell something in his own strange way. It's easy enough imagining that the mafia doesn't want people breaking into their world, but imagining someone trying to break out enough to converse with an outsider is difficult to grasp.

The longer Malik pauses to think, the clearer he sees that Altaïr is the captive of a system that more or less compels him into destroying the world in order to live. And Malik had inadvertently made him his own captive, too. Altaïr had been making an innocent and disorganized effort to escape from captivity but ultimately failed and landed in another, because Malik failed to see the bars of his cage.

His tongue feels heavy in his mouth and words won't leave him.

He narrows his eyes into aching disbelief, mostly at his own slow uptake.

"You're lonely..." Malik finally realizes in a whisper.

Something twists in him at the full force of Altaïr's look and underlying emotions he doesn't recognize.

"It's the nature of our work. I wanted you to look at me without dragging you into it and it's far from easy. I used to be tempted to announce it to people because how could they look at the world and not recognize it for what it is?"

Malik imagines that people would look oddly at him and wonder what the hell he's talking about. It alienates Altaïr from people around him, from anyone but _the_ _famiglia_.

"People say that I'm bitter and misanthropic, and protests of any kind always seemed like a waste of time..."

Malik likes to call himself perceptive, but he has never felt more blind. He listens to confessions and words twist inside him like sharpened knives of accusation.

"I've been prepared for everything in life except you... Some angry gods must have sent you to kill me before death—"

Malik can't stand to listen anymore.

"If you were lonely you could have asked for companionship, not threatened to kill off my only kin."

It might have been the first and only instance Malik saw Altaïr laugh. It starts out as a slow rumble and slithers into a gentle shake of shoulders while he stifles his chuckles.

"An armed mafia boss of the wealthiest clan in the region holding hands with a newly-made outsider friend. Yes, very likely."

"This could have been done without my dick up your ass." Malik scowls.

"But it wouldn't have been as fun." Altaïr's jests with voice colored in remnants of amusement.

His expression sobers up fast.

"I never apologized for what happened at the villa."

"Your apology is long overdue. But well-received."

The relief on Altaïr's face hurts Malik in ways a fist never could.

"You must work on your eloquence. For all your other skills, you are a novice at communication."

"I admit I need a patient teacher." The mafioso smirks in healthy cheer.

Malik feels for Altaïr's hands that rest on his hips, lets their joined hands fall between them and slips the tips of his fingers through Altaïr's loose fists.

"You got yourself one. Now kiss me so I forget why I was angry with you."

* * *

**A/N: And so you never find out why Kadar borrowed money in the first place huehue**

**Folks, there's this thing I accidentally scribbled up, a small sequel following this short story, but it's just so embarrassing and /sappy/and I don't want to spoil what I have here, but... just... WAT DO?**

**To add or not to add, honest?**


	5. PART 2 Calm Before Storm

**Sequel to 'Kill Me Before Death' **(I'll keep adding here)

**Summary:** Malik was never fond of snow and ice to begin with. It seems only fair and reasonable to melt it down.

* * *

Altaïr is in mid-stride towards the apartments entry when the doorway opens emitting Kadar whose daily chore obviously seems to be bringing out disposal.

He almost collides with Altaïr on his way out.

"_Holy_ cannoli—you gave me a fright, you asshole." Kadar gripes while flattening his free hand close to heart.

"Stop carping, twerp." Altaïr grumbles right back and maneuvers them into a swap of positions, "Can you go out in that?" He points to Kadar's casual attire while he feels for his wallet inside his back-pocket.

"Uhhh, sure." Kadar decides after a brief check-over, "Why?"

"Here's money." Altaïr clarifies after he throws a wad of cash his way and Kadar catches it just in time.

Kadar unrolls the notes and scowls at the sum in utter confusion.

"Go buy yourself a movie ticket. A whole cinema. A wife. Whichever. Just _leave_." Altaïr orders during a slow retreat backwards.

"What? _Why_?" Kadar demands as his confusion deepens with each passing second.

"Because I'm about to go fuck your brother senseless."

Kadar does what any sensible man would do in given situation and turns on his heel to scram from sight.

He is halfway across the pavement, garbage bag in one hand and money in other, when Altaïr calls from the doorway.

"Kadar, wait."

Kadar stops in his tracks at the order, but doesn't look back.

"Don't return for at least an hour or so."

Kadar turns only so he can lift an eyebrow at him.

"Two." Altaïr corrects himself, "Two and a half." He assesses at last and Kadar's face sours up.

"Fucking animal…" He grumbles on to himself and proceeds onto his way to stuff himself with expensive food.

* * *

When Altaïr finds him on the setback terrace at last, it's a sight he's not expecting, but nothing less of a pleasure.

Malik has slept through all his calls for attention and continues to slumber on a sun lounge with a book just waiting to slip from his loose grip.

Altaïr enjoys the sight for a couple of peaceful moments and starts working at his clothes. He drops the belt and unbuttons the first barrier on his shirt and leaves it at that.

While he is careful to slot himself in beside Malik he hopes the piece of furniture is as sturdy as it feels.

The cushions are thick and soft and the lounge appears to be enough to hold their combined weight. Altaïr fastens himself to Malik's back and reaches around to put the book away.

Malik isn't startled at being woken up by a pair of warm and insistent lips on the visible patch of skin where neck and shoulder meet. After all the months, he is used to Altaïr's presence the way he's used to his brother. He knows not to whack the man on the head thinking it's Kadar feeling him up (as it did happen the first time he was woken by Altaïr in his own home).

"If I were an assassin, you'd be dead by now." Altaïr breathes into his neck between kisses.

Malik blinks his vision into focus before he twists in Altaïr's hold and falls on his back.

"You're worse than an assassin." Malik's eyes are only half-open and his voice is laced with sleep. He frames Altaïr's face with his right hand and caresses over the length of his brow, a touch of smile rests on his lips while Altaïr waits for him to finish his train of thought.

"Thief." Malik smirks when the brow he strokes narrows into a question at his accusation, "You've stolen my heart, and now I have to chase after to steal yours in retribution."

Altaïr's chuckle is a deep baritone pressed into Malik's petting palm.

"I'm afraid you'll find yourself with empty hands then. You've taken that already."

The smirk stretches to reveal Malik's canine as he resumes his old position, rolls his shoulder lower and cranes his head up to offer his neck and listens to Altaïr's low drone of appreciation as he dives in for a treat. The sound makes an itch of lust crawl through Malik's nerves, and his lips set off the sweetest tingle where the man showers attention, until not a spot is left unattended and Altaïr settles behind him, nuzzled deeply into the crook of his neck.

Altaïr's arm is curled around his middle and Malik's fingers work short of his knowledge as they pet across the back of Altaïr's hand. It's a pleasant and peaceful silence that settles over them.

"Hey?" Altaïr breaks the quiet after Malik stills all movement and almost drifts off in his embrace.

"Hm?" Malik breathes back half-heartedly, his voice scratchy from sleep.

"Marry me?"

Malik feels himself go stiff with sudden wakefulness before he cranes his neck to look at ambers that hide behind his shoulder.

"_Marry_?" The dropping lilt of Malik's question is not unalike the one he used ages ago when Kadar asked him if they could visit the moon for his tenth birthday.

"Yes. You know, where people agree to tolerate each other for eternity and eat fatty cakes."

Malik shoots him a glare which dissipates the moment Altaïr completes the trail of his thoughts.

"I'll bear your name. Altaïr Al-Sayf Ibn-La'Ahad." He breathes into Malik's shoulder and across his chin and watches him intensely until Malik is lost in pools of amber.

"That's a mouthful." Malik whispers after a while because Altaïr is close—so close he can inspect the texture of his scar and count his thick lashes.

"I'll bear the burden with pride."

Malik swallows a tad nervously, but Altaïr is worse off. He watches him squirm under the pressure of anticipation before he deems enough time has passed to end his agony.

"I don't see any engagement rings." Malik says, his voice a little firmer now. He is quick to hide a smile fighting for a place on his lips while he watches Altaïr grasp the full implications of his question.

Altaïr fails in first attempt to form words, but he corrects himself quickly.

"I didn't exactly plan any of this."

"You never plan things, Al-Sayf La'Ahad."

Altaïr's wicked grin charges him to return the gesture before the smile is wiped off his face by a press of lips.

Altaïr cages him in until Malik is not on his side anymore and Altaïr is flat over him and they are nothing more than a wedge of two bodies. The mafioso kisses deep and hard, and there's hunger in the way he shifts. Malik is neither ignorant nor non-compliant to his ulterior motives and creates space for him to fit in between his thighs.

"Sex?" Malik offers blatantly when the pressure on his groin is too sweet to stop just there. The row of pruned hedges they planted on the terrace last year shelters them from onlookers just fine and they know how to keep quiet.

"What about Kadar?" Altaïr inquires when he's managed to disconnect himself from Malik's throat. He feigns ignorance and innocence and waits to hear Malik's response.

"You didn't complain as much when we first met."

The sting of Altaïr's nip is nowhere painful enough to hurt on his neck and strong enough to entice him into a roll of hips. Malik feels the hardness in Altaïr's trousers and it sends his head into a dizzy spin. He digs with handfuls into the muscle of the man's ass and pulls him further against his crotch. Altaïr's responsive groan slinks into humid breath against his throat.

"Are we really going to celebrate our engagement with sex?" He asks between worrying the skin of Malik's neck.

"I'd say it's what we normally do."

Malik doesn't relent until they're all but rutting and making-out like two horny teenagers, even though they're two grown men and should know better than to play hiding on a terrace. It's Altaïr who breaks this circle of frustrating build-up by pulling Malik's t-shirt up and over and ridding himself of his pants. By the time Malik has undone all the buttons of Altaïr's shirt, there's no time to take it off and they are in a confused state of half-dress when Altaïr breathes out a question.

"Lube?"

"It's not like I keep it here, dumbass."

Altaïr growls and takes off to bedroom in nothing but socks and his wrinkled-and-open shirt. Malik might have laughed at the sight were he not hard as rock and his body humming with the promise of pleasure.

Malik vaguely wonders why he hasn't used the chance to get his pants off during Altaïr's short absence, but the man is already upon him, in exactly the same state of (un)dress as when he had left, now with the bottle in hand. He replaces Malik's stroking hand with his slick one and slathers his cock from root to crown. Malik knows in an instant the man wants to ride him.

He allows Altaïr to climb and assume a comfortable position, attempts to remove the remains of his shirt, but it's not even past Altaïr's shoulders before the man is claiming his lips and taking him in. There's nothing but pleasure in Altaïr's expression while he seats himself across Malik's crotch and grinds down to drive Malik to sweet insanity. He grabs at the back-rest for leverage and laments the lack of hand-rests to hold on, but Malik aids his movement and helps him up and down.

They keep the noise down to a minimum, to avoid prying eyes and nosy questions, and there's nothing but soft labored breathing to pair off with the slick sound of Altaïr riding down his shaft, with the occasional creak of chair disturbing this silent duet.

Altaïr is a hungry bottom, demands movement and effort, but because Malik is fond of this lounge and doesn't want it ruined he pays no heed to Altaïr's protest when he maneuvers the man backward and over until Altaïr's head is a sliver away from falling off the far end of the chair and Malik hovers over him. Altaïr ceases his grievances at lost control when it's clear Malik has no intention of stopping or letting him off unsatisfied.

Altaïr remains there on his back, shirt splayed open at his sides, ass off chair and perched on Malik's lap. His thighs are open for Malik's fitting and heels digging into his back. The scuff of socks is an alien sensation on Malik's skin but the weight of Altaïr's push is a pleasant addition. He holds himself over Altaïr on both arms and hammers in a barrage of thrusts until Altaïr is cursing filthy endearments at Malik and his cock.

The mafioso bends his clothed arms at the elbow and quickly locates the stop of the chair above his head. He grabs at the rim and holds, awaiting Malik's thrusts with more ease this time.

Their coupling is steadily growing a bit more than just hushed breathing, all labored pants and gasps and obscene slaps of sweaty bodies, and Malik hopes no one's around to hear it.

He stares right back into the burn of ambers he's grown to love. The face beneath his is abundant with signs of pleasure and he drinks up each one of them and fucks Altaïr like the man loves it.

He is picking up on speed even when his muscles scream in protest, and he hardens his pace close before his climax, doesn't notice as the end of the lounge begins to slope and both almost drop right off it.

Altaïr reaches over his head to plant his hand on the tiles and act as prop up for the weight the chair can't hold and even the scales until they work out a more favorable solution.

Malik pushes himself out of Altaïr and falls back to flatten the backrest, then pulls Altaïr along to balance the heft to middle ground, and they are no better than when they started.

He shuffles them around until Altaïr is on his side and they are still on the wrong side of the chair when Malik spoons up from behind and fits his cock back in without Altaïr's help. The man is accepting enough of the new position and hooks his leg behind Malik's thighs, because he's raring to come as much as Malik.

He's putty in Malik's hands, putty against the possessive splay of Malik's touch that drags up the gentle bumps of his abominals and ribs, and across his chest and pecs. Altaïr's pulse is an unremitting throb against the flat of his hand that latches around Altaïr's neck and holds without pressure. The roll of his hips is not a powerful one, nor hard, but more is not needed to push Altaïr towards the beginnings of an orgasm and he (graciously) spends himself inside his awaiting fist.

Malik is quick to follow and decides against finishing inside Altaïr, knowing the mess he'll make, so he too is courteous and pulls out in time to spill across the warmth of Altaïr's inner thigh.

Altaïr is growing into one lazy bastard.

He pillows his head in the bend of his arm and waits for Malik to clean up the collective mess they left on him, from the wet patch of come in Altaïr's palm to the streaks of cooling issue on his thigh. Malik sees the smug smirk across the pair of scarred lips and knows better than to complain. He offers an unintelligible grumble in lieu and leaves Altaïr be.

Before he has the chance to finish up his impromptu clean-up, Altaïr has already crossed the borders of la-la land.

Malik pulls his t-shirt back on and throws a blanket over the sleeping mafioso (because it's getting chill, not because he'd like to cuddle up) and resumes his place. He smiles at their comical position, but Altaïr wouldn't have dozed off if he weren't tired, and he lets him.

It's only for a few minutes, he promises himself as he allows Altaïr's steady breathing to trick him into slumber.

He dreams of pretty mosques and tacky balloons before he wakes up, jarred into consciousness by some distant sound from several stories below, and when he blinks himself awake they are as he left them, except the light outside is dimmer.

Altaïr is fast asleep and Malik is a warm spoon against his back. He listens to deep breaths while he stretches as far as his position allows and props himself onto his elbow first.

Malik runs his free hand down Altaïr's side but it does little to wake him up.

He leaves a trail of kisses along the dip between Altaïr's shoulder and bicep. It's cotton under his lips until he's high enough to slip the shirt off Altaïr's shoulder and continue up once his path is cleared. Altaïr wakes with a deep sigh and he's content to remain lying just there, upside down on a wooden lounge chair while late evening dawns upon them. His lips quirk up at the tickle that is Malik's teasing touch of lips below his ear. Malik's grip is oh-so-strong and firm across his flank—

"Oh, come _on_!"

It's far from the first time Kadar walks in on them, but his fake outrage is ruinous to the cuddly mood that had settled over Malik.

"No one compels you to stand and watch!"

He doesn't turn to look but he hears Kadar's retreating groan as he distances himself from the terrace he perhaps hoped to occupy. Malik had usurped it long before Kadar did and feels no obligation to share, not now while he is wrapped up against Altaïr's shaking form which is victim to a bout of suppressed laughter.

He hides his smile in the wrinkles of the white shirt, content with knowledge that he is the warming force that has melted some ice off Altaïr, and he doesn't need Ezio or Leonardo to remind him of this gargantuan feat.

There is more frost to thaw, but Malik is persistent and his endeavors are auspicious.

* * *

**A/N: **

**Why 'Calm Before the Storm'?**

Because I left my brain unattended for _one fucking second_ and it spewed forth another sequel - it will have a couple of chapters, it will be a third start in this series, and it will be a little fucked up.

Welcome aboard and enjoy your stay.


	6. PART 3 Fool Me Once Ch 1

**Summary:** Fears are there for a reason. Fears tell the tale of suspicion. Fears make us crumble. Fears make us monsters. And when Malik is taken from him, he fears.

**Warnings: **Blood and Gore, Violence, Character Death, Sexual Content, Mafia, Stalking, Abduction, Weapons, Homophobic Language

**A/N: Enjoy the little appetizer.**

* * *

Altaïr is late but not too late when he arrives.

Connor is strapped to the chair already.

Altaïr nods to gathered _famiglia_ and walks over to Connor with an investigative eye. The straps are but silken ropes, scarce enough to present serious restraint, the same ones that once shackled his own wrists in like manner.

He stops beside the armchair and Connor's eyes are closed, his breath slow but steady. Altaïr lifts his chin with a finger and finds hazel eyes opened. They look at him from below, somewhat hazy, but the initiate doesn't speak.

Altaïr thumbs along the mid-line groove above his full lips, presses into the soft flesh of his lower lip, with the tip first, then cuts in with a blunt nail.

"Can you feel it?"

Connor refutes with a sluggish shake of head while Altaïr holds his chin.

Altaïr releases the hold and looks up from below his cowl.

"Leonardo will be here in a moment." He speaks above the hum of discourse in the background.

The subterranean room looks like a spirit of past frozen in a moment of time.

The walls are clothed in drapery, crimson and heavy, with no windows, no artificial light save for the fire. It's dim around the corners and bright in its middle, saturates its actors with a luminous glow of flames that blaze in the center they have girdled round. All don a hood, a blade, a joy. A delight at fully embracing an initiate into the band of family. Of creed. Of blood.

"Remember your own trial-and-cut, Desmond?" Altaïr asks and watches as the heat of fire that separates them plays a distorting game with the young man's hooded face.

"Feels like it was yesterday." Desmond flashes a smile that turns into a chuckle when Ezio pats him below nape and clinches him into a half-hug.

"Last year _is_ like yesterday, mouseling."

_The_ _famiglia_ is in good cheer and it's good to be in their company even when Altaïr is in somewhat of a hurry. The act of initiation must be attended by the inner circle, the quintet (soon to be sextet) of this region, no matter how busy, beaten or bloody they might be.

"I'm not the mouseling anymore." Desmond dissents in a futile protest.

"Sure you are." Ezio ushers him into his playful grasp anew, "Aveline is long past her initiation and my mouseling still. And now I get another one." He points at silent Connor with arm still wound around Desmond's neck. Desmond shakes his head and hides a traitorous smile in the shadows of his hood, but accepts Ezio's coddle.

Leonardo joins, beams an infectious smile.

The heavy doors are closed and locked into place before Leonardo settles into position before the initiate, kneels high between Connor's spread legs.

The air shifts into a solemn quiet; not a sound is uttered when each member falls into place around the fire, a circle closed by Connor's sitting form at apex.

The fire crackles in soft, soothing tones while tools are prepared.

When the blade of Leonardo's scalpel cuts into Connor's skin and flesh, he doesn't flinch, he doesn't feel.

When the somber timbre of Leonardo's voice dispels the peace, their heads fall into a low droop.

"With this offering, I summon the ancestors that once stood around this fire, that they may witness this oath." Leonardo tilts the blade so that the blood which trickles in fat drops along the edge may stain only Connor.

When he resumes the induction, there is a unison of movement as the circle behind him pull out blades.

"With this sacrifice we curse those who would end freedom. Let their bodies wither, let their bones crack, let them see their men drown in their own blood."

When Altaïr slices his blade into the join of his thumb and index finger, the rest mirrors. Blood flows and trickles and drips across the floor, round the fire.

"To this band of sisters and brothers we offer our minds—"

When Leonardo dips a finger into the seeping blood on Connor's cut face and draws a crimson line down the center of his forehead, Altaïr does the same on his own.

"—our breath—"

When Leonardo paints the length of Connor's nose, Altaïr drags his bloody hand down the line of his own.

"—our speech."

When Leonardo rises, Altaïr's palm trails over his scar and mouth. Heady crimson assails his vision, his taste, his smell. The fire burns crimson, as do their memories, and their future.

"Spirits of our ancestors, behold this man."

When Altaïr's hands rise, facing up, to form an open cup, blood trickles down his left palm and into his right, pools in between. When he breaks this touch of hands and joins his right with Aveline's left, his blood mixes with hers. Hers mixes with Ezio's, Ezio's with Desmond's.

"Let his enemies flee from him. Let their alliances crumble and their houses burn. Let them suffer deeply and live a life of shame and bitter misery."

Aveline's clutch tightens on his hand and Altaïr returns it, feels the slick of her bleeding hand connect their hands and minds.

"Behold this man, for he has done faithful vigil for freedom. And with this oath promises to offer life and death to its purpose."

When Altaïr lifts his eyes from the flame he sees each face marred by stains of red. A sensation of fulfillment courses his veins in a warm rush, feels like their bodies are fused for a fraction of a moment.

"This man is now an assassin."


	7. Fool Me Once Ch 2

**A/N: Whatever you're expecting from me, it's not what you expect.**

* * *

"Never pegged him for a faggot."

"Shut your trap and shoot. You're not paid to think." Jubair monotones.

Sibrand averts his gaze from his smoking companion with an open sneer, but the shutter goes off and immortalizes a set of frames where their targets hold hands on the late sunset. The beach is mostly vacant, with the remaining families sluggishly migrating towards their cars.

"Always seen him as a hardcore macho, you know."

The last volute of smoke rises above the small bistro table before the man across flicks the cigarette stub into the grainy sand and doesn't bother to address the scandalized look sent his way by a passing mother who is leaving the beach cafe with a babe in arm.

"He's more of a man than you can ever hope to be, bud."

Being the butt of jokes is little pain compared to the sting of exclusion.

The stroll of the oblivious couple is put to a stop when the unknown man thrusts the mafioso into shallow waters with a playful shove and gets tugged along. The photographer doesn't follow the ensuing laughter and grapple through the lens because he leans across table towards his companion.

"Eat shit and suck cock, Jubair."

* * *

"... 33, Syrian by heritage, retains a single living family member," soft clicks of the remote control meddle with Robert's juicy chews. The rest sit in a smoky silence. A picture of a younger man comes up on the canvas, "Kadar Al-Sayf, 23, also Syrian—"

"Yes, yes, yes—" Robert cuts off with a dismissive wave of hand, "What clan? I want to know what alliance they've made."

A heavy silence stretches on while Robert cuts through a crisp apple and eats the slice off the blade.

"I'm listening, Jubair." He prompts. Unhurried, because he enjoys his meal.

"Well… that's the thing, Boss." He stalls a touch uncertain, knowing he's about to break the inevitable, "He is an outsider."

Robert stops with blade in midair and holds the slice there. He passes a look around the table, examines each face with a thorough inspection, like all owe him an explanation.

"Outsider?"

"Yes," Jubair confirms, leaves the remote upon the heavy table, "An unknown, complete outsider."

Robert bursts into a bout of laughter that only a handful of bravest join in.

"He tied the knot with an outsider? Come now, next thing you'll tell me is he married out of love."

Jubair's eyes shift elsewhere as he phlegmatically waits for an order. Robert takes it as a cue.

He raises himself from his stooping posture, drops apple and knife, and commences a thoughtful walk before his gathering. He saunters a half circle round the table. When he speaks, his voice is laced with incredulity at the extraordinariness of this arrangement.

"The gall of that man. Has the assassin no family honor? No codes to follow, or creeds to obey?"

_Everything is permitted_ hangs in the air between the gathered group like a heady stench. It's not their first time admitting outsiders into their family circle, though never did it happen via marriage.

"Very well. That's settled then. We may not have an alliance to exploit, but we have a weaker link."

"Boss?" Prompts one of the group.

"The outsider."

* * *

A quickie has somehow turned into a longie.

Malik sporadically remembers to check his wristwatch, the sole thing he wears beside sweat and his wedding ring, those two only material possessions he ever allowed Altaïr to get him.

He recurrently remembers why Altaïr insists on bottoming so often as his throat closes off from the unrelenting pleasure that sculls his veins. Altaïr keeps a constant pressure on his prostrate, his aim is cruel and flawless, he thrusts in ways that aren't tentative in the least, but hard and hungry. Malik can scarce hold himself up while Altaïr fucks into him from behind.

His muscles quiver and protest from strain and pleasure. He lifts himself because there's nowhere to fall, not too high because there's nowhere to rise. The car roof stops his ascend. His elbow and forearm have only touched glass when they slide down the slippery backseat window with a noisy squeak. Everything is foggy and humid with breath.

There's nowhere to grasp at in the tight space of Altaïr's car and Malik can only lean his temple against the arm that holds up against the inner bump of the door, can only open his throat long enough to moan, and keep his skull from banging into the glass while his body enjoys Altaïr's assault. Altaïr's answer of pleasure rises above the soft tones of softer jazz that plays in the background. He steals an arm around his waist and molds himself against Malik's back to give it to him from both ends.

"Oh, _Allah_—" Malik groans, his voice hitching.

"You called?" Altaïr whispers gruffly, his breath rolls off Malik's neck.

"Don't make me… bite you… again…" He breathes between thrusts into Altaïr's awaiting fist.

"I'm terrified..."

Malik's heart pounds in his throat and ears, momentarily drowning out everything but pleasure. He has been in control until recently. It's no secret that Altaïr is very much the one in command now. Malik has no qualms getting it as good as he gives it, but work awaits.

"_Hurry_." Malik rasps. He doesn't have much time left and the fact hangs between them like a threat. His lunch break won't last forever.

He blinks up at the time.

"Three minutes." He supplies. Altaïr drops his mouth to Malik's shoulder, scraps his teeth over skin and leaves raised welts. A spike of pleasure shoots up his spine, making Malik drop his face into his forearm to muffle the responsive moan. He doesn't see, but feels the way Altaïr moves against him. Muscles bunching and releasing under flushed skin while Malik tries (with little success) to spread his thighs more without falling off seat.

"Two minutes..."

"_Malik_—"Altaïr breathes the moan into his ear, devotes his exclusive attention to pushing him into a climax. Malik gives him his due—he is not stingy with force, rolls into him with a rush of aggression, and Malik takes it all, can't stop the gravelly moans that rip from his throat without control. The car is rocking, it just has to be. Heavens be praised for tinted windows.

"_One_—" His voice comes as a low, throaty whisper, almost a moan. One fucking minute before his break is officially over. The pool of pleasure slowly branches out and stirs into an orgasm. Altaïr's groan vibrates against his shoulder and he recognizes its pitch, but Altaïr's thrusts stutter too quickly for Malik to react.

"You fucking bastard..." He fumes without real menace as Altaïr's seed trickles down his thigh and he makes sure to pull at his hair hard enough to make it tingle while Altaïr chuckles himself stupid into his nape like he's high on life. His body falls heavily against Malik's while he evens out his breathing. Malik allows him this small escapade because he'll clean this mess with Altaïr's clothes. He allows himself this tardiness because spikes of pleasure skitter through his entire body in small, stray shivers, and he worries least now for his belated arrival.

He presses his shoulder into Altaïr's pouty lips, maneuvers him into a sitting position, makes short work of cleaning off the evidence of sex. Altaïr reaches between the front seat gap for a unopened cigarette pack, taps against the box during the course of brief pondering and leaves it aside. He is trying to rid himself of the habit and rarely smokes these days. He leans back prone against Malik's reclining form and bends a leg to make a better fit. Malik drapes his arm across the limb while Altaïr slouches against his heaving chest, the gesture as possessive as it is protective. He feels the caress of his husband's ear against his collarbone while Altaïr thumbs over the glassy surface of his watch and wipes off residual moisture.

"I saw this other one. It's expensive, but—"

"Altaïr, no."

"You never let me buy you gifts."

Malik rests his eyes and kneads into Altaïr's muscles where his thigh is melded into his calf. While he progresses higher Altaïr settles without questioning his deliberate lateness for work. Malik strokes his husband's heel while a chatty mood surges to the surface and settles over him.

"He who has no car or doesn't wear designer shoes or imported perfume is only pretending to exist. Whoever doesn't own, is not even alive. Impostor economy, impostor culture. I don't want to be made happy by things I'm told will make me happy, I'm content with that which really makes me so."

"And does your husband make you happy?"

"Against all odds, you do."

Malik nudges against Altaïr's sweaty forehead tucked below his chin and the scruff of his goatee prompts the man to look up. Malik kisses him quickly and chastely, pulls away just before Altaïr's brain kicks into gear.

"I can give a perfect response to that." Altaïr assures and again molds himself against Malik's frame.

"Is it cheesy?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't want to hear it."

Malik answers Altaïr's chuckle with a smile and begins to trace the groove where his thigh meets his groin. A shallower breath is a warm rush of air against his neck as he gently tugs at the trail of hairs between Altaïr's navel and cock, but Malik stalls his caress when he feels another stirring of lust in his loins. There's no time for more. He tilts Altaïr's chin up to steal a cursory kiss and begins to dress.

* * *

Whenever Malik's inner oh-shit-meter goes off, it usually has something to do with either Altaïr or Kadar.

Kadar won't answer Malik's rings when he calls before he is to leave work, and it's an ill omen. A seed of fear is sown into his stomach when he leaves his office and there's this gut-feeling that he can't quite place. He slips past one of the last remaining colleagues on his way out and by the time he is outside it's dark and his hair is standing on end. He decides to ring Kadar up again once he's at the takeout. Driven by some vague premonition, he slows in step and tightens his fist around the phone in pocket.

Malik is half across the empty grounds when something roots him to his spot.

A limousine swings into the driveway and eases into the parking lot, a long sleek hood of black with tinted glass and a noiseless engine.

The dormant feeling of uneasiness morphs into a twinge of panic when the vehicle stops right before him, the front window already lowered.

"Malik Al-Sayf?"

Malik swallows but doesn't lean in to connect the deep accented voice to a face. The man doesn't wait for confirmation, but sticks out his arm, a camera in hand. When Malik leans in with a scowl he zooms in on the image which casts a chill over him. It features Kadar, bound to a chair in a bland and shady room, blindfolded.

A blank expression of shock gobbles up the frown on his face.

The photo feels like a rough blow upon an ulcerated wound. Questions ran rampant throughout his brain, forming accusatory words and shouts yet he lacks a voice. It's not Kadar's fault this time. It's not his fault either. In a world where his brother's life is safe, it probably isn't Altaïr's fault either. The car inches forward when the camera disappears from his sight and the window rolls up.

Malik hasn't yet absorbed the news when the door behind unlocks and opens to beckon him inside.

A sober assessment of the situation points out the futility of struggling against captivity and he knows it's best not to resist at present.

Malik sinks into the limousine's dark interior without a noise.

He can fight once Kadar is safe and back in his arms. On the vigor of this idea he is carried down the driveway and onto the street. The car tears on into the night at a merry speed.


	8. Fool Me Once Ch 3

**A/N: You assumed this is a story about black versus white? Surprise surprise!**

* * *

During the course of the ride, Malik is deprived of vision.

The blindfold is taken off a little before the door nearest to him is opened wide to encourage him outside. He can't be sure when this sudden freedom will be compromised and scouts the area quickly and as thoroughly as this rush allows.

They are on a hilly part of the area Malik usually sees only from the old parts of the town where plazas aren't marred by modern steeple of skyscrapers and don't obscure all vision. The city lies far below, a sea of lights with dotty colors reflected over a wide body of water in the background. A brush of forest and dense undergrowth of small trees and bushes stripes down the slope that descends into the city's outskirts and Malik decides it's an advantage, a sliver lining that can be used for a comfortable escape.

The blindfold loses all its gist, really.

Malik wonders if there was an intended purpose behind it at all other than to try to roughen him up. Perhaps this merry lot expects him to lie back and wait for help, or rather, they firmly believe he wouldn't dream of attempting a breakout. Malik is not offended and finds no fault in this. The element of surprise is on his side and he is happy to have it there.

Malik turns his gaze to the only building around.

It's fenced off and lined with barbed wire. It doesn't look rundown, just vacant, abandoned until recently, like a fresh fiasco of a bankrupt company or a failed project later sold off to foreign hands. At about five stories tall, with a dying lawn and sturdy interior that looked fairly new. Somewhere in there in the bowels of this structure must be Kadar. That's what makes Malik step out when these men steer him towards the entrance.

The playground begs his attention and leaves him little time to assess the actors, but Malik is sure he'll get to know them soon enough and takes in what little he still can before they usher him inside.

A single man nudges him forward with a trifling push between his shoulder blades while he moves along. Malik recognizes this one as the blond who fleetingly addressed him with a foul insult in the car. The remaining duo is at his sides as they walk.

The introductory rooms of the building are an ample stretch of plain nothing, too simple and rudimentary to be committed to memory.

They climb up a wide staircase lacking railing, caught in the process of being completed, and enter a long bland hallway that hosts a heavy door at its summit. It appears to have an elaborate locking system. This could be a pain in the arse, provided it's the exclusive means of exit.

One of the two that precede him enters a code too quick for Malik to follow. He hears a chatter of tongues streaming from in there before the unhinged door puts a stop to it. A hush passes over the group within as soon as they enter.

A mist of smoke billows out of door. The air in here is too stuffy and almost makes Malik cough.

The room has no windows.

Air filters can not quite dissipate the thickness of smoke and the light above is a hideous garish yellow, ugly but agreeable enough to provide Malik plenty eyesight.

The room is mostly a vast stretch of nothingness with one corner occupied, a wide TV screen there, a couple of laptops and a mighty-looking camera elevated on a tripod.

A group of five somber, dreary-looking people is assembled around a heavily-timbered table and smoking forbidden cigars. This quintet plus the trio that had piloted him in here probably make the inner circle. Considering the gravity of this task, they are in small numbers. Neither of them seems a very savory character, but then, neither seems a whole lot of people Malik meets on daily basis. All are laden with weapons. While it's shit, it was foolish not to expect it. Though Altaïr drops his role as an assassin and a mafia member while in his presence, he is armed otherwise.

Malik breathes small and stands unflinching under the heavy weight of a dozen unrelenting eyes.

A murmur of approbation gently arises from the audience before a man―one of three Caucasians―wrinkles his newspaper and leaves the oaken table to confront Malik.

This man is tall, with a ﬁgure of perfect elegance and unexpected impressiveness to a man of such large scale. The bulbs cast a gleam over his bald head. He is dressed as the rest of them, all shirts and dark suits.

The man offers his huge hand and Malik takes it while he is greeted with outright enthusiasm.

"Malik Al-Sayf, I assume." The man says during this hefty shake of hands like he's just met a long-awaited business partner and Malik plays along.

"And you might be?" Malik naturally inquires and feels a presence settle next to his right flank.

"I'm sorry we meet under present circumstances. I wish it could be otherwise." A Frenchman, if the accent is to be trusted. His demeanor confers a sense of dignity on the whole affair and the knot in Malik's gut somewhat loosens despite his best efforts to keep it tight.

"Robert De Sable." The man supplies at last. He gestures to the man towering behind Malik (the one with the camera, the deep accented voice from the car) and follows clockwise across the table. "From your left to your right are Jubair, Majd Addin, Tamir, William, Talal and—Sibrand." The third man from the car is not introduced and Malik assumes it's a straw man.

Malik flicks his gaze to the presence on his immediate right and recognizes the blond pest. Rude, but not someone who gives the impression of a person with decided opinions.

"Yes, I've met the gentleman." Malik remembers the slur from the limousine. Sibrand fixes him with a stare and Robert lifts an eyebrow at their familiarity.

"He called me by a lovely name I don't care to repeat."

At Robert's silent inquiry, Sibrand speaks up.

"I told him what he is, Boss. A faggot."

Robert heaves a breath Malik cannot entirely define as a sigh.

"Thank you, Sibrand, for your appropriate and timely input. It means a lot to all of us."

Malik imagines it can't be at all enjoyable having the Boss poke fun at you, and judging by the murmur of amusement in the background, it appears taking the piss out on Sibrand is their favorite pastime.

Malik passes another look across the earlier trail set to him by Robert, gathering what little he can from the ostensible. Majd Addin is a hairy man in the fat age of pleasure, wealth and ease. Tamir a man with a wide mouth fringed by a thin mustache and a harsh slope of eyebrows who strikes him as a person with a surly manner. William is the only one sans a cigar, a gaunt, peevish man building a Stonehenge from lighters that clutter the table. Talal looks like a flinty man, all order and rules.

While Robert's bearing somewhat stills Malik's apprehension, at the back of his courage is a monstrous fear.

"Where is my brother?"

"Safe. You shall soon join him." Roberts assures, "As I said, Malik Al-Sayf, I feel regret at having to use you and your brother as bait—you are but innocent bystanders caught in the crossfire of an ancient battle."

Malik drinks up as much of this information as he can manage with all thoughts on Kadar. They are lucky enough. This man knows they are outsiders, they're not a well of information to anyone. Still, he doesn't pass any comments.

"Luck willing, both of you will be only passing guests in this small exchange. Until then," Robert motions to Malik, and Jubair closes in on him along with the straw man, "you won't be harmed by my hand, only by a misstep of those you trust."

"Strictly speaking, we should kill them." Majd Addin comments from the table before they can leave, a fat Cuban dangles between his two bulbous fingers. Malik takes an instant dislike for him.

Robert does not abide by this quip and silences the slip-up with a rise of hand. Majd Addin doesn't agree, but he doesn't have the nerve to upset his Boss' plans.

"I'm not revengeful. Unlike your husband and his gang." Robert ends their encounter with these words and a meaningful look. Malik can't manage more than a nod before they blindfold him once again and direct him out.

While they escort him through a winding of halls, Malik counts his steps, counts seconds, and focuses on twists and turns, charts them on the inside of his head. The map may be of use later on. He hears a set of beeps, a code being entered, and then a heavy mechanical lock shifting out of place. When the fold comes off, the barrier of steel is wide open revealing Kadar's sitting form. Malik isn't thrust forward but left with freedom to willingly step into his prison, and he does, unhurried.

"I believe you will be comfortable here." Jubair says without schadenfreude.

"As long as you don't have one of those annoyingly loud ticktock clocks." He replies impromptu, on a whim of elation he feels at seeing Kadar unharmed and sitting cross-legged on the only table in the room.

He doesn't get a reply and his thoughts are far from Jubair while he keeps his eyes squarely on his brother.

No sooner does the lock fall into place when Malik closes the distance and presses Kadar into his chest with so convulsive a force that the poor man utters a protest of pain.

"Are you hurt?" He whispers the question after Kadar accepts the sting of his embrace. Kadar's old, treasured sneakers dig into Malik's stomach, crossed at ankles, his open knees frame Malik's waist and fasten onto his ribs as soon as he latches onto Malik's back and hooks his wrists on his shoulders. It's been a while since they hugged each other thus.

Kadar clicks his tongue against his teeth in a sharp smack of denial and Malik accepts the laconic response. That's good news; he will need Kadar at the ready.

"Friendly lot, aren't they?" Kadar lampoons, more seriously than he is wont to speak. There's some twisted truth to the ridicule.

Malik disentangles himself, limb after limb, and launches a second check-over of Kadar's immediate well-being. Kadar doesn't abandon his spot on the table and casually sits on its pitted surface while Malik proceeds to gauge what is their prison cell. Malik wanders abroad and examines about to give his myopic gaze a sense of familiarity, that he may establish a better perspective on things at hand.

They have been billeted into an odd room.

It's huge, for one. Probably once meant as an office or a meeting room. It looks new, like the rest of this entire structure, it smells crispy fresh and unsullied by human presence. The furniture is sparse but recently installed in here. One wide square table, two chairs, two beds complete with two sets of pajamas laid out on the clean sheets. There's a distinct lack of switches as electric light is controlled from outside. The windows (three in number) are crisscrossed by a network of metal bars, but jumping out wasn't even a remote feasibility because of the height.

There are two doors in total—one connecting their room to an adjacent bathroom, and the other a heavily guarded steel. Malik will find a way out even if it means unscrewing the door from their fucking jambs. Rare is the man who won a fight battling what never harmed him. He will, therefore, turn his attentions to his real enemies-cum-unwitting allies.

Malik's gaze mounts up to the two identical surveillance cameras that overlook the room. They run parallel on two furthest points from each other—one far above the bathroom door facing inwards across the room and the other situated between the heavy door and the first window, facing the door. They could prove to be a problem.

Any and all information would be about great right now.

"IP cameras?"

"Nah." Kadar says from the table, "CCTV. Old classic. No sound. No bugs either, I've double checked. We're not tapped for some reason."

"Blind spots?"

"The cam above the bathroom covers about two thirds of the room, because it's tilted low. I guess they wanted to include the area below. The one above you safeguards the exit." Kadar turns to regard the corner to their right, looking slightly less cheery than Malik is used to, "The only blind spot is this stupid window."

"You sound pretty sure." Malik says after he dips his hands into his pockets and sways over to lean his hip against the table.

"I'm not an IT student for nothing, _akhi_."

"Good job." Malik lauds with a nod.

"I wasn't lazy, you know." Kadar grumbles on and Malik smiles and drapes an arm around his shoulder and neck, shares his warmth, leans his temple on Kadar's already angled head like in the old times, when they were two and none of this was real. A dim smile glimmers pleasantly upon Malik's face before he speaks.

"I bet you a fiver I'll find a way out before you do." He says with a ray of humor. Kadar mimics a mock-spit into his palm and hands it over for a shake without upsetting their embrace.

Malik continues to rub and knead into Kadar's shoulder and keeps him there, watches as a dark brooding slowly begins to roost over him and takes him far away. The crease on Kadar's forehead deepens, signals the gravity of the direction that his thoughts have taken.

"Hey." Malik's call breaks into Kadar's musings, scattering his thoughts.

"Hush, I'm thinking, _akhi_."

"Truly a once-in-a-lifetime event." He chaffs.

Kadar smacks a hand against Malik's chest and leaves him in a fit of breathy chuckles. Malik falls into thought soon thereafter and the rest of his pondering is carried out in silence.

* * *

Altaïr's battery is running low by the time he stops off at the villa, on Ezio's insistence.

He is close to tearing his hair out.

Malik's phone is dead. Kadar's phone is dead. Their apartment is vacant and hauntingly silent. Malik's colleagues assured him he had left hours ago. Kadar's university is long past closure. The restaurants they frequent are bereft of customers. It's past midnight by now anyway. Altaïr has been circling the city like a vulture for hours on end, with no success.

He parks the car haphazardly before the villa and bolts up the staircase.

Ezio's tone had been casual over the phone, but Altaïr has this prickling sensation in his stomach that tells him something is most definitely up. He finds Ezio and Desmond in one of the living-rooms—Ezio sitting perched over a closed laptop and Desmond at his back, hands in pockets, hood up.

"Hello, cousin."

A second fear spreads through all Altaïr's sinew at Ezio's grave voice, at his somber face. Desmond won't even look at him.

"What happened?" He demands, his heart still forming a brutal knot in his throat and making it hard to breathe.

Ezio inches the laptop away from himself and Altaïr catches the unsubtle hint and takes the nearest chair. He opens the laptop to break the bad news himself and he is chilled to the marrow by the sight that greets him. It's unquestioningly Malik. It's his dark goatee, his lips set into a grim line, his shirt—still wrinkled where Altaïr had fisted the fabric earlier today.

There's no one but his blindfolded husband on the photo.

The shock of this makes him physically sick and he closes the full screen and marks that it's part of a private stream with a single written message preceding it. His heart instantly jumps to his throat when his eyes land upon the sender.

_We need to talk, Assassin. — Robert_

That was it. One message and a photo, no ranting, no threats, just a morbidly grim message that turns everything over inside Altaïr.

"Call through." He orders because he can't trust himself to do so. Ezio obeys without protest and without trying to imagine the consternation Altaïr is now in.

The call is pending for half a minute before someone answers, each second cuts deeper into Altaïr's patience.

The live stream that starts at last features Robert. He is alone on the screen but not alone.

Robert folds his arms over his chest and leans back into the chair, projecting as much friendliness as he had intended—which is to say, not much.

"_So we meet again_." He drawls with a menacing glance and a sweet smile that plants the germ of evil into Altaïr.

"On what grounds do you justify your actions?" Altaïr asks, slowly, as not to upset the fragile will that keeps him in one piece and rooted to the chair.

"_You have grossly insulted me more than once. I have a score to settle, Assassins._"

"What _kind_ of score?" Altaïr solicits with mock-patience.

"_Purely financial, of course. With a bit of steel on the side_."

Robert is dragging it out on purpose and Altaïr is steadily losing patience.

"This could have been done honorably. Plain and simple." He argues in what are the dying remnants of reason and semblance.

"_True_." Robert finds himself hard-pressed to agree and grudgingly admits, but is quick to add, "_Had I been dealing with honorable men. This time there are… variations that add to complexity of the deal._"

"By 'variations' you mean my husband?"

"_I guess I need to practice my subtlety_." Robert says with a small smile and returns to the matter at hand, "_I humbly offer myself as a business partner._"

"You can 'humbly' kiss my ass." Altaïr hears Desmond mumble in the background.

"Speak sense." He demands.

"_Sense enough?_" Robert asks with a playful lilt as he sends another picture through, a footage outtake of blindfolded Malik.

It feels as if his entire world makes another shift. Robert De Sable has Malik. His Malik. Altaïr's future is unimaginable without this single human being.

"Not near." Ezio races to answer before Altaïr can and closes the picture, but Altaïr succumbs to rage and hammers a fist against the table.

"I'm going to _kill_ you!" He growls into the stream, livid.

"_Get in line, Assassin._" Robert says calmly, in a voice that exudes confidence, "_What are you going to do, hm?_" He spreads his arms, "_Go ahead. Drown me in your impotent rage._" Robert then leans his chin into his palm, his other hand a fist on his hip, "_I'm waiting, Assassin. With your husband and brother-in-law at my mercy._"

His words go through Altaïr like a dose of ice.

Ezio quips in to negotiate while Altaïr falls back and eyes Robert with a naked loathing.

"Our question still holds, Robert." Ezio prompts, ventures on to avoid anything superfluous to the discussion.

"_I want the weapons you owe me. The cash I gave for it. Triple the amount, in exchange for this new price._"

"Past deals have been made and unmade, Robert. You didn't exactly hold your word either."

"_Yet I delivered a hefty sum for it_." Robert drops the casual stance and leans into the camera, "_Draw a line, Assassin, don't cross it. You won't find me unreasonable_."

"We will give you an answer in due course," says Ezio while he hovers above the end-stream.

"_Let me know the wheres and whens of your itinerary. I'll keep your husband safe until then, Assassin._"

Ezio's finger stills on the mouse, unsure whether Altaïr wishes to hear more or end the call, and Robert beats him to it.

"_Alright. I'll butt out._"

There is heavy quiet after the video ends.

Altaïr is struck mute and turning paler in spite of a strong effort to conceal his trouble while the three of them are back to sitting in silence, and white specks of snow that signal a terminated stream seem to swell in volume to fill the gap of conversation.

* * *

**A/N: Consequently, you better be seeing a rainbow, or I'll know the reason why...**


	9. Fool Me Once Ch 4

"Homosexuality is a mental disability." Sibrand casually informs right after having dropped off a plate of sandwiches and drinks in their cell.

Kadar ceases his inspection of their belated dinner to look up with a jolt, across the table where Malik is sitting with his chin nonchalantly cradled in a propped arm.

"So is being a faggot." Malik returns without a blink.

Sibrand doesn't take his rebuff and insult well.

"Prove me wrong. I'll be impressed."

"Not interested in your impressions." Malik lays him off with a wave of hand and picks up the toast sandwich Kadar has abandoned a moment earlier.

Sibrand apparently handles dismissal even worse.

"What do you faggots whisper in each other's ears while fucking? 'Ooooh your shit feels good on my dick, sissy boy'?" He slurs with an ugly sneer and an angry clutch on the reinforced-steel door. Malik isn't even mad, he is jolly as fuck. There isn't even bait on that hook.

"Seems like you have experience." Malik answers drolly between bites and smirks at the scandalized look he earns before he chuckles along with Kadar who is almost choking on his meal.

Sibrand glares fiercely but wilts under their laughs. When the door falls into place and locks, the brothers burst into an open laughter.

"Why do you indulge him?" Kadar asks while he brushes off a stray tear of mirth and picks up his sandwich.

"The guy is being played like a fucking fiddle."

* * *

At least five-to-six different cats (as far as he could tell apart) have crawled across Altaïr's lap over the course of the last few hours. It's inevitable, as all three doors of this current focal point of the villa are opened for the come-and-go of _the famiglia_ members. The living room is cluttered in both people and tech stuff. Altaïr doesn't mind the animals. They are well-behaved and few fool around with the equipment, and Altaïr wouldn't protest for the singular reason of them being Leonardo's pets.

The inner circle is close at Altaïr's side, all other missions aborted and attentions turned to the single case of rescue. Even Leonardo lost his customary good humor, shaken up by the whole event.

It's almost 3 o'clock in the morning.

Altaïr knows they are exhausted, but there is still the matter of a due call. He also knows his own attitude is erratic and fickle, shifting radically between panic, anger and pure aggression. Ezio is growing cranky and finds it harder to deal with him with each passing minute.

"We should think on it for a while, cousin."

"I'll think when I'm sure what his answer is."

Ezio and Altaïr have been scuffling over a fixed decision for the past two hours. Others will jump in with suggestions or ideas, but it falls on them to work out a compromise, and between the two of them Altaïr is the more bull-headed one.

"Why not just pay the fucking cash, Altaïr? Is it worth a risk?" Ezio revisits an earlier proposal, one adamantly supported by Leonardo, but not by all. Altaïr worries not about a hemorrhage of cash and weapons that Robert demands.

"Because trade goods don't guarantee their safety, Ezio." Altaïr watches as Ezio closes his eyes with a tired sigh and sinks into his forearms, but he presses on, "Why should I stick my neck out for them? Or give them a chance to harm my family? I'll do neither." Ezio sneaks a look up at him from below, drained and on verge of giving up, "There is something threatening my husband and my brother-in-law and I will ward it off, even if it kills me."

Ezio heaves another sigh and straightens and rubs his face.

"At least try to focus, for fuck's sake." Ezio draws the laptop closer and opens the stream, "Or your own."

The rest of _the famiglia_ falls back to let them negotiate. Leonardo remains where he sits, to Altaïr's right side but off screen, Aveline stands on the far end of the table, while Desmond and Connor assume the sofa.

"_What took you so long_?" Robert says upon answering the call. This time it appears he is alone in the room, but it matters little.

Altaïr had thought he would face him unruffled and composed as he would in any other given situation, but it's stronger than him when he stares at his nemesis with such malice and actual hate which would send any other man scrambling away under the gaze. Ezio instantly shoulders himself to the lead upon sensing Altaïr's mood.

"We have set a date."

"_Until the finish of this week. I won't take no for an answer._"

"Monday." Ezio argues evenly.

"_What, reluctant to part from cash_?" Robert mocks, and Altaïr regards him with frank loathing.

"Money was never a problem, Robert. The weapons, on the other hand." Ezio trails off.

Robert takes a moment to mull it over, but acquiesces in the end.

"_Monday, it is. That's in less than two days. Not an hour more_." Robert switches his focus to Altaïr, "_For each new day of delay, you'll find a part of your husband missing. Hopefully you can see him in a single piece again, Assassin_."

Robert has the gall to smirk at him, to stretch his lips over canines cruelly and reveal a stretch of pearly teeth. "_Don't worry, we'll start with his cock_."

Altaïr's hands are angry fists on table while his breath tightens.

"Altaïr, calm. He wants to aggravate you." Leonardo mouths at him in a hush. Altaïr knows that, _hopes_ that. But it does a very meager job of calming his fears.

"Time and place, Robert, if you'd please." Ezio dismisses the small escapade, expects Altaïr to hold himself in line this time.

"_Same old place as before, Assassin. Monday morning at 6 o'clock. Not a moment past_."

Robert ends the stream without another word and Ezio closes the laptop, rather pleased with his performance, and only mildly pleased with Altaïr.

It is set.

Robert has been duped into thinking that they intend to pay the trade.

"Connor," Altaïr calls and sees him rise from the sofa, "I have a very delicate task for you."

* * *

Malik exists the bathroom freshly-showered and dressed in those comfy set of pajamas to find Sibrand's newest sojourn to their cell.

He has been sent to inform them about the impeding lights outage in their room, but instead of vanishing from his sight he starts shooting a barrage of questions about issues Malik really could care less about right now.

"I just got through a heated debate between myself and three other guys about whether homosexuality is a choice. My view, based on logic and evidence, points toward homosexuality being determined at birth, and they all responded with the idea that the human brain can change anything, that it can will a person straight or gay if you desire it enough, and that homosexuality is a choice. So what do you say?"

Kadar doesn't even bother. He doesn't give a fig for the subject and he's cocooned in sheets and waiting for the promised darkness with his back turned to both of them.

Malik's own impressed-o-meter is exactly at zero while he stands and deadpans at Sibrand. He suppresses a long-suffering sigh, and replies flatly:

"I say that this building is full of people that should worry about their own lives and not everyone else's."

Sibrand is getting nosy and growing blatant. Malik only vaguely wonders what the story is behind his morbid curiosity, but doesn't really ponder it. He has least time for this yammering nonsense.

* * *

Altaïr feels uncomfortable about leaving this room. It furnishes him with some odd sense of stability. He also fears a bed without Malik.

He is at ill ease with any company at the moment. It's nearing five in the morning and daybreak is nigh, and the rest of them scatters into their refuges to prepare for what lies ahead and to do Altaïr this favor of loneliness. Altaïr knows that he and fear don't mingle so well in their imagination, and no one finds the right way to console him, not even empathetic Leonardo.

He isn't one to feel fright because nothing is gained from it. Survival panic, yes. Anxiety, maybe. But not fear. The pain of it hurts him because there is no familiarity to compare it with.

All that he loves is in jeopardy. He knows he will do nothing sensible should his fears be decanted into reality.

Aveline lingers a while longer after everyone slithers off, kneads her hand into his shoulder, tells him to take a shower to unknot the tension from his body. He knows there's a point to her entreaty, and a hot shower sounds appealing. He does want it, and he doesn't. Malik's scent is still on his skin, the trail his fingers had traveled hours ago, the spots his lips had touched. He wants to keep them on himself. He skips the shower but accepts a few hours of sweet oblivion when Aveline fetches a bed-pillow and blanket to put on the sofa he occupies.

She leaves him in the gloom of the room, in the dimness distorted by a glow of laptops and the sunrise filtering in through venetian blinds.

Altaïr lies absolutely gutted.

He firmly believes he won't be able to sleep after dark thoughts begin to sidle into his mind, until there is a pair of amber brighter than his that peeks at him from the floor.

It's quiet and its fur is dark, black as Malik's hair.

He sticks his hand out from beneath the blanket to lift the cat under its covering and the feline settles against his chest with a deep purr. Altaïr falls asleep with hand in black fur and dreams of his husband.

* * *

Contrary to Kadar's plans and expectations, Malik shoves his bed until it bumps into and connects with his, fits a spare blanket into the indentation of the break between two mattresses. He wants them to sleep together because that rarely, if ever, happened after Malik had married, and because he wishes to be close to Kadar tonight. Kadar accepts this set up without a word.

They lie in bed together, Malik on his back and Kadar attached to his flank, watching the dark early morning through grilled windows. Malik holds Kadar to his side in one arm and feels the weight of his wedding ring on the other. He slips the ring off and twirls it between his fingers while Kadar's clean scent appeases his nostrils. His brother's body emanates a steady heat that reminds him of Altaïr's warmth.

Malik smiles because he suddenly understands he's been long too caught up in enjoying the intimacy of sharing a bed with someone to forfeit it now. It's nicer to have the reassuring presence of another body close to his own.

He lies with Kadar supine in his arms and sunk into the cushioning mattress like a rock in mud, like he hasn't since childhood.

"_Akh_?"

"Hm?"

"Nothing, _akhi_. Just wanted to hear your voice." Kadar whispers.

Malik swears his heart melts right then and there. He presses his nose into Kadar's hair so he can breathe him in all night, tightens the arm around his back protectively. His other hand softly tugs the tufts of hair out into little spikes until Kadar drifts off under his touch.

Malik kisses him—he doesn't quite kiss him—he lays unmoving lips against Kadar's temple and lingers there for a while, remembers how he spoiled his brother rotten with affection. He has spoiled Altaïr with love, too. He is concerned for Altaïr as much as he's concerned for Kadar; knowing his husband, he will march out too early like he's wont to do. Malik doesn't know what kind of deal Robert is striking up with them. For all Malik knows, it could be something altogether too far-fetched. This knowledge, or ignorance, prompts him to haste. From this moment on he hasn't got a day to lose, he must be quicker than Altaïr.

Malik takes a deep breath to calm the sudden urgency that surges within his core. He can't quell the sinking feeling of knowing that something big is about to happen.

He should sleep. Even one sleepless night can throw a body out of kilter and he will need all energy he can muster.

Malik attempts to force himself to sleep, but his eyes keep drifting open to look at the sunlight streaming through the windows. He listens to Kadar's deep breathing pattern for a long time and drifts in and out of sleep. When his internal clock deems it's around eight in the morning, he begins to stroke over Kadar's back.

"Kadar..." He whispers, lets his free hand brush up some of his hair. He plants one kiss over-and-over on a single spot on Kadar's forehead until he begins to stir, "Come on, wake up."

The azure of Kadar's eyes is what greets him first this morning. His blue eyes are staring up at him in concern, his face pinched in worry, mouth turned down in a frown. This look soon dissipates and Kadar falls into the hollow between Malik's shoulder and chest, stretches himself awake.

"Hey." His voice comes out gravelly and rasping from sleep.

"Looks like you got some sleep."

"Looks like you didn't." Kadar says with muffled voice, somehow knowing Malik hardly got a wink of sleep. He's not best pleased at having been woken, but they will need time to plan out and orchestrate their escape.

* * *

"You did _what_?!"

Altaïr and Ezio bellow in unison while the entire room stares at Connor. Connor's eyes flit between the two of them.

"I saw Robert De Sable." He sums up, calm as a millpond. He looks sooty all over, like a man just spat out by a brick oven.

"Connor," Altaïr starts, then falters. This boy is either a prodigy or a reckless idiot. Probably both. "When I sent you to track down our target, I meant roughly locate their whereabouts, not infiltrate their hideout."

Perhaps the lecture is not fair, but it's necessary. Altaïr was once as young as Connor and thought himself invincible, lauded his own opinions above all else, and he was rash and stupid at times. Connor didn't fail his mission, which makes his lecture all the more poignant. But it had been reckless. He didn't put Connor to following De Sable. The boy could have been discovered. He could have been killed, their plans exposed, Malik and Kadar killed as well. He was eager to help, true, but at what cost, and at what risk?

"Have you remembered to map out your route at least?" Altaïr asks between massaging his temples and forehead. He feels like someone's raking his brain from the inside, and the migraine isn't aiding his case in the slightest.

Connor produces a decent sketch on a piece of besmirched paper and flattens it out on the table. It's odd, because there are two maps; one marks the hideout while the one below is a black maze of _something_. All occupants circle round to examine it, to read out the scribbled legend.

"How did you get through barb wire, Connor?" Altaïr asks with a flutter of alarm, "Please tell me you didn't cut your way through."

"I'm not stupid."

Altaïr turns his attentions to him standing with arms crossed and leaves the map-deciphering to Ezio and Leonardo.

"I found an uneven-height break where one fence meets another and used it as leverage. I haven't left a scrap of evidence behind." Connor trusts himself and Altaïr trusts him as well. He isn't one of their youngest initiates for nothing.

"Have you seen them?" Altaïr asks, his voice tinged with hope.

Connor deflates slightly before he offers a shake of head and looks to the side. "I don't know where they keep Malik and Kadar. The ventilation shafts don't go as far as there."

Ventilation shafts?

Altaïr's puzzled gaze drops to the black maze on the map, then on the legend. Indeed, it marks the second chart as a ventilation system.

* * *

When Sibrand visits them again at around 10 o'clock, he slips inside juggling two identical trays of food.

Malik eyes the opening crack of the steel-door with a sudden longing, but he knows a rash act wouldn't help anyone, and he prefers caution.

His eyebrow shoots up when he shifts his gaze to the huge plates and he feels very much like a pig before slaughter. There's a veggie-packed omelet on each plate, topped off with mushrooms, slices of beef and cheese and toast. Two platters of pastry and croissants and a plump little French cake dipped in chocolate. Two glasses of hot water with tea bags dangling in it and two cups of steaming coffee.

He hears Kadar smack his lips over their breakfast.

"_Akh_, this almost doesn't look like captivity. If I didn't know any better, I'd say we're at a hotel."

"It's not poisoned, is it?" Malik accepts this unorthodox generosity with a joke.

Sibrand pointedly eyes them while they laugh and start their meal, and Malik is sure watching them eat doesn't fit his job description. The man has been barraging him with strange questions all morning. It's clear from his hostile interrogation that he has an ax to grind on the issue of homosexuality.

Malik decides to humor him and see how far he can go.

He leaves the food aside and takes up the cup of coffee, leans back into his chair, draws an ankle up on knee and returns the stare. "Sibrand, there seems to be a non-zero chance that maybe you're not into women. Alternatively, you're bad at sex and consequently had only bad sex." Even Kadar turns to watch how the blond's neck and ears and cheekbones turn a brilliant red on his pallid skin with each new word, "You should try fucking a dude sometime. Hell, everybody should, but you especially. I bet you'd really love it."

"I bet I'd want to hang myself!" Sibrand all but shouts and claps the heavy door closed. The ensuing boom sends a detonation across the walls and makes them vibrate for a couple of seconds.

"Wow." Kadar awes with a mouthful, "Two parts bitter to one part butt-hurt." He gulps the toast down and looks across table, "That didn't sit too well with him."

Malik nurses his coffee with a gusto and doesn't give a shit.

* * *

"Are you sure?" Kadar finally asks, voice low.

Malik takes a deep breath and lets it out, coils his fingers tightly around two biggest metal bars of the blind-spot-window right across the steel-door. "Absolutely not, but we'll do it anyway."

Kadar nods, a trifle uncertain. "What if it doesn't work?"

"Let's save pessimism for better times." Malik gives an energetic shake-and-push and begins to shake up the entire bar-cage with a quick succession of forceful shoves and pushes until it begins to give a sound.

It's a deceptively easy task, and it's a very big might, but it's worth a try.

A low growl of frustration rips from his throat while he puts his best efforts into thrusting and shaking the bars out of wobbly core. Someone will probably notice the commotion.

Probably migrates to definitely as the rattling grows in power.

Malik pretends at being stunned when Jubair and a straw man scurry into their cell with guns at the ready. They put their hands up in admission of defeat, a beaten look on their face. Inwardly, they are anything but beaten. Jubair, a man typically cautious as Malik himself, has fallen for this unsophisticated trick.

Jubair inspects them with a touch of incredulity while he waits for the straw man to unscrew and fix the surveillance camera. Malik doesn't blame him for the baffled stare―only a fool would try to escape through this window. Fools or not, though, the camera is turned towards the former blind spot, where it's not needed, and there where it's needed is now clear.

"You're a genius." Malik laughs and picks Kadar up and whirls an entire circle with him in hold. When he puts him down Kadar is all grin and smiles, happy that his suggestion bore fruit and that the area before the exit is now unattended. They are in a better mood than when they started out as they return to quiet preparations.

They ponder, they think, they plot.

It's decided. It must be done upon sundown. By the time they get out (Malik won't think of any other possibility) it will be too dark to catch them in the cover of the surrounding forest.

* * *

Their arrangements on contriving a way to hack into the main chamber are not going swimmingly.

"I'll take the longest route, I've been there already." Connor insists.

"Aveline will take it. You are going with Desmond."

"Hey, I'm not going with him! He weighs at least twice as me. No offense to you, Connor."

"I wouldn't take that risk either, Altaïr." Ezio sighs, conceding Desmond's point.

Altaïr cradles his head over Connor's findings with lines of worry ploughing his forehead. This brawl is getting them nowhere and time is running out. He wants to get Malik and Kadar out as soon as tonight. At least their gear is arriving via Leonardo's efforts while they scuffle over positions. He rubs and scratches furiously across his scalp and thinks back to Leonardo's approximations. The strength of the bolts holding the ventilation shafts will easily support two adults, it may bend but that is less of a worry since they are hidden from view. Still, he won't force any of them to crawl through tight tunnels if they're at least not slightly at ease.

"Alright then. If you're worried about the shafts not holding you two together, Connor can go alone." Connor retreats a step back with a pleased smile and lets the rest hover over the new mappings done by Leonardo. "Will you go with Desmond, Aveline? I can't break another duo up." Altaïr says knowing Aveline isn't best pleased with this arrangement. She wanted to take the longest route, the one circling half the building before stooping inwards towards the main chamber where the inner circle of Robert's nest dwells, the one Connor is assigned now. It ought to have been imparted unto her, by all logic―she is smallest in stature of them all, the quickest to get there without letting the rest wait out.

"Whatever you deem right, Altaïr. I've no objection to working with Des."

Altaïr looks over to Ezio, "Not afraid of going in tandem with me, old man?"

Ezio smirks and chuckles, "Less afraid of our combined weight, more concerned about what you might do alone. Someone needs to keep you on a leash." Altaïr scowls and takes the answer as he gets it. Ezio and him, it is then.

Connor on the longest route. Aveline and Desmond on the easiest. Ezio and Altaïr on the shortest but most intricate one.

A couple of hours stand between them and the break-in.

* * *

The monotony of their planning is broken by Sibrand's unexpected visit.

He seems to have settled down enough to talk to him again.

"Feel the itch to bitch again?" Malik smirks up at the blond. He is alone when he closes the door and basically shuts himself in along the brothers. There is a straw man he brought along guarding the door from outside, but Sibrand apparently doesn't want him to listen in on the conversation.

"I heard you tried to break through the window. How fucking stupid are you actually?"

Malik shrugs. He is in no mood to play stupid for Sibrand. And the man doesn't even look remotely interested in that particular topic. Somehow, Malik is not surprised. What does surprise him is Sibrand's question, and the way in which he asks it, the placating tone of his genuinely curious voice.

"So... what do you guys like? You must be into things like bondage and office sex and that shit." Malik senses his embarrassment even when Sibrand hides his hands in pockets and tries to appear casual.

"Not really. I'm just into my husband."

"Ah, well." Sibrand takes a few uncoordinated steps around but doesn't stray far from the door, "It reminds me of my job: chained to this building while getting fucked in the ass by the rest." He chuckles weakly, unsure with his own jest. He is the kind of man Malik wouldn't choose for a friend, but one whom he would point to the right direction if given enough incentive. And the lack of other enterprise at present offers a shady incentive.

"What are you trying to prove, Sibrand? That you were never beating your dick to a dude? A closet is a very lonely home, you can come out of it." The blond glues his gaze to the floor and avoids confrontation. He appears very much interested in what Malik has to say however. Malik feels his hostility dissolve the more Sibrand's curiosity deepens, "With all due respect, women just often suck at pleasuring men. Most don't excel at hand jobs, or blow jobs, they just can't do it as good as a man could. Sometimes only a dude can understand a dude." Sibrand is sinking into a deeper shade of embarrassment but acknowledges his words with silence.

Kadar does not.

"_Akh_, I beg pardon, but I personally just _love_ the way women―"

"Shut up, Kadar."

"Okay." He chirps crisply. He butts out of the conversation which is already finished as Sibrand knocks for the guard outside to unlock the door and steals out in pensive quietude.

Malik watches him leave without a parting word, hopes that the world is left bereft of another idiot today. He is contented with the knowledge of having talked some sense into Sibrand.

The next time they see him, it will be the last before they break out.


	10. Fool Me Once Ch 5

**A/N: Let's start this countdown, shall we...**

* * *

The plan is bulletproof.

They have worked out all possible and impossible scenarios. They are ready for improvisation and ad-libbing, set up and stealthy. There are two vehicles in total: one car and a high-tech van vested upon Leonardo's care. The vehicles are recessed into a cover of shrubbery, some distance down from Robert's hideout, hidden in plain sight.

Altaïr is conducting some last-minute tests while the rest of the team adjusts their overalls, checks the weapons and technicalities.

Leonardo is truly a genius. Everything they wear, weapons excluded, is designed by this single man, every creation a harmonious symbiosis of more elements. The light vests they wear he designed as ballistic protection, an amalgam of Kevlar and polyethylene. Their gloves are thin but sturdy and sensitive to touchscreen, their clothing rich with pockets for each and every purpose. He feels the weight of his guns on his hips, the bulk of tools on his thighs, inspects the shape of leather-bound blades across his vest. The palm-sized GPS navigator with pre-installed ventilation route fixed upon his wrist like a watch is simultaneously a powerful flashlight with an endurance far longer than they'll need. Hopefully.

Altaïr lifts the dangling respirator mask to his lips, blows air into it, and watches _the famiglia_ around him flinch and groan. They're connected through a constant sound transfer, connected as one body and mind.

"Move your asses." He orders into the mic installed snugly within the confines of the mask. His voice is a low tone, but with mics and earpieces turned on high, it can easily pass for a shout. He adjusts his own earpiece and his protection glasses, watches as Leonardo hops off the van to offer parting words and leaves the two paramedics behind to unpack their supplies alone.

Leonardo gathers them into a circle, helps Ezio fix his mask into place and embraces Altaïr and Aveline, the two assassins flanking him. This clasp is carried on until they've formed a tight ring.

"Equip yourself with patience and fortitude, children. Safety and peace be upon you."

"Safety and peace." They echo as one before they leave Leonardo on watch with the paramedics and steal up the hill into the night, following Connor's lead.

There is a relatively short distance to sneak up through thick undergrowth and greenery, one crossed in utter silence and pitch-black darkness with the security lights of the hideout as a distant beacon. It's going too slow for Altaïr's taste and haste, but Ezio pushes him back each time he attempts to quicken his step, and he has agreed to let Ezio precede him.

He has to calm down, or he is compelled to do more harm than good. What benefit would it be destroying their only chance at a stealthy attack through rash foolishness if it directly harmed his family.

Their break-in is a virile adventure masterfully executed.

They circle round the structure through the forest, to the rear of the building where a wired corner rises to accommodate the hilly ground and leaves them the advantage of height-difference. Connor leads them up the point of his former entry, kneels and props his knee squarely to offer leverage. Desmond advances first, finds a safe hand and foot hold, maneuvers himself over the three-line barb wire without getting scratched or cut. While he waits for the rest to follow he deposits a bolt cutter at the foot of the corner pole, one of the two they carry. Should they be unable to leave via main entrance they can always cut their way through instead of mounting the fence again. After they regroup Connor continues to lead the way to a backroom or chamber, uses a torque wrench to pick the lock while Desmond keeps a flash on it. It's easy enough a task; the worst yet awaits them.

Once inside, they assemble in front of a complex edifice of metal air-handling units comprised of several huge boxes. There is a drone and a deep whirr of machines before they collapse the exhaust fans (they leave on the supply-air grills) and open the corresponding box that extends inwardly into the first supply duct leading up and disappearing into the ceiling. Desmond and Connor take the fan compartment out of the box and peel off the final filters with activated carbon until the path is cleared.

They look to Altaïr for approval.

"May gods have mercy on my enemies, for I shall not."

"Amen." Desmond speaks above a whisper and turns to watch Connor scramble his way inside the box first and then up the duct. It's wide enough to squeeze through (thanks to the giant scale of this hideout), but it doesn't look all that comfortable. There is a squeak of combat boots and a thunderous sound as Connor pushes up the short distance before leveling out into the first horizontal tunnel with a strained grunt that resonates through their earpieces.

"Next." Connor green lights and evens his breath through his nose, waits for the rest in the first branching corridor. Second in are Desmond and Aveline, in that order, then Ezio followed by Altaïr as the last of them.

* * *

Kadar stands in the former blind-spot leaning against the window, smiles apologetically up the surveillance camera and waves purposefully at it.

Waiting time expired.

He swallows the nervous lump in his throat, clears it, takes a huge gulp of breath. He doesn't wait more than a couple of minutes for someone to show up, but it feels like an eternity and like a blink of a moment at the same time. Their plan is not entirely unfeasible, but difficult to carry out. This is made worse when the steel-door unlocks to reveal Jubair, not Sibrand that they have awaited. As luck would have it, Jubair is alone.

He asks Kadar's business with a single twitch of an eyebrow.

"Evening. My brother is sick and I've only this to give him." Kadar thrusts out his arm, but leaves his hand curled to hide the decoy. Jubair's gaze only fleetingly drops to his hand, as he is hardly persuaded by this to encroach the territory inside the cell like Sibrand is wont of doing. He frowns, letting Kadar know that he doubts the candidness of his inquiry.

Kadar fists his hand and lifts both up where they are visible. "Geez, Jubair, who pissed in your cornflakes? My brother doesn't feel well, we just need some medicine, is all."

The mafioso decides to open up a little after a thorough inspection of the cell. "Where is your brother?"

"In the bathroom." Kadar counters, offers his palm for a renewed scrutiny. Jubair is prompted into a few steps, but he never gets the chance to enter the surveillance area because Kadar draws back his hand and says:

"Say, did this attention-grabber grab your attention?"

Malik's entrance is quiet, shrewd, neat.

There's scarce a second passé before he slinks out from behind the steel-door and connects the back of Jubair's skull with the rung of chair they had snapped off earlier. The hefty whack on head sends the man into an immediate sprawl across the floor. Kadar steps out of camera range in calm steps, jumps over Jubair to check for guards outside while Malik maneuvers the body against the wall and into a hunch.

"Is he alive?" Kadar asks in a voice laced with concern.

"Yes," Malik confirms while he feels around Jubair's pockets but finds absolutely nothing of worth except a single gun, "He'll have a raving headache once he wakes up though."

"Well, that was fun. Let's never do that again." Kadar says, watches Malik check the safety of the gun before offering it to him. Kadar looks a bit wide-eyed at this silent proposition.

Conflict dances in his deep-blue hues while Malik observes him. A few moments later Kadar holds the weapon in his hands, but his forehead is daubed in sweat. He can't kill a man. He can't shoot at a breathing body—he wasn't prepared for that, never learned to do it, never had reason to. Malik gives the weapon to him for his own protection, but he hopes it won't come to the worst. He doesn't want to leave a stain on Kadar's conscience.

Malik shifts the steel-door an inch away from the wall to slip back into his earlier cover where he had deposited a makeshift carrier bag crafted from blankets and filled with blankets. He could identify no other usable items inside this cell, but hopefully he'll come across other valuables during their journey out.

"What if it doesn't work, _akhi_?" Kadar asks with a worry that's worming its way through early courage.

"You're a pessimist as always." Malik says and slings the bag over his shoulder, shifts it across his back to keep his arms free, "Perhaps you're right. I hope you're wrong."

"I hope so too, believe me." And Kadar clasps him into an embrace that troubles Malik. When they separate Malik goes to debouch from the cell and into the wider area, peeks at the halls outside as Kadar had done earlier. Nothing seems out of place, which is only moderately reassuring. He feels Kadar lean onto him and he pulls him along when he leaves their ex-prison. They will turn right, to the direction Malik came from when they brought him here.

Malik slowly closes the steel-door until the lock falls into place and doesn't spare it another look. He is revisiting the route he had mapped out upon his arrival and doesn't notice a countdown ticking by without their knowledge, until it gives out a warning signal. Both brothers turn to look at the display where the lock-system demands a confirmation code after locking the door.

They have none to give.

What is at first an annoying beep of caution morphs into a screeching sound of an alarm that alerts the entire building.

"_Shit_."

* * *

"Move your carcass, man!"

"Wait—this isn't on the map."

Aveline grunts and Desmond oomphs and there is some clatter that sounds like he's dropped off into some blind alley.

Altaïr lies with his head sunk inside bent elbows, presses the mask further into his jaw and mouth, and listens to the two of them bicker via sound transfer. The team has advanced from the basement onto higher grounds only slowly, with the exception of Connor who despite having the bulkiest stature has probably scampered off half his distance by now.

Altaïr waits behind Ezio who is working on a fan motor that stands in their path. He's grown used to this constrictive way of travel, but he itches to stretch himself. The ducts are dark as the night itself, but if he looks up and points his flashlight at Ezio's form, he can make out the movement of an outstretched arm working in a peculiar motion to unscrew the frame of the fan. The vents and ventilation in its entirety is a rather new installment, the screws are not rusted and go off easily enough under the care of a deft hand, especially since Connor preceded them in this task only hours ago when he first broke into the hideout.

The fearless courage of that boy.

It's difficult enough crawling through cramped and confined space with nowhere to turn even without claustrophobia, but doing all this without a proper mask for hours and in the face of an air flow resembling a vacuum cleaner is an ordeal beyond imagination. Altaïr makes a mental note to return this favor in future.

There is little he can bemoan in present circumstances; even though the ducts they traverse aren't cold-air-return ducts, they aren't scalding-hot steam ducts, and the entire system is shut down in contrast to Connor's lone exploration. The ducts are not filthy with dirty muck either. From what it seems, they have been put to use recently and they are not greasy, but the smoking habits of De Sable's men Connor had fleetingly mentioned seem to account for the layer of grime and soot that have accumulated inside shafts.

Most ducting in the building is too narrow to be navigable, and the more spacious ones don't mind going vertically up and down to generate inconvenient routes, but at least there aren't turning vanes inside these round shafts—they would be a pain in the arse to remove. Altaïr distributes his weight evenly during the journey, keeps some of it on his legs and mostly slides through rather than crawling, climbs down drops in shafts with painstaking care, descends down curving paths without a noise. Doing all this with a body ratio resembling that of Connor must be at least mildly terrifying.

Speaking of the devil.

"Altaïr?"

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Connor whispers, his voice lower than that of the rest, "Checkpoint reached. Over."

"How are you even human, mouseling?" Ezio answers in tacit praise and grunts with strain while he lays the fan out of their path, then pockets the screwdrivers. It'll be a tight fit, but Altaïr will squeeze his way through just as Ezio is doing in this very moment.

"How many, Connor?" He asks after leaving this obstacle behind and trailing after Ezio.

"All except Jubair. One straw-man."

"Only one?"

"They are coming in and out."

Altaïr can barely hear the whisper of Connor's voice by now, but he commends the boy's caution. One lesson well-learned today. He leaves further questions aside and gropes his way out of the tunnel down a sheer drop and into another corridor where two ducts meet. They veer left. There shouldn't be much left before their last stop. He follows Ezio closely because the man doesn't mind the proximity of his weight, careful to avoid any noises and conspicuous clamber through ventilation.

"Connor?" Aveline calls through the line.

"Yes?"

"You've got a slap due once we're out." She scolds, and Desmond is quick to quip in:

"Double that."

"What's wrong?" Altaïr asks while directing Ezio with a beam of light down another descent gradually sloping into a curving spiral.

"We're lost. Turns out Connor's map isn't that accurate, after all."

"We're not lost." Aveline huffs and sighs. Her frustration is understandable, and Altaïr won't speak against it. "We just strayed from the course."

"Well this isn't the main chamber, I tell you." Desmond speaks from what is probably an interesting unexpected discovery.

"Just don't end up in a boiler room by mistake, you two."

"Des, get up here."

Altaïr listens to Desmond pant into the mic while he presumably climbs out of what is a vacant room with Aveline's assistance. Once they resume their journey and even out their breathing, Desmond speaks up once more.

"The good news is we can open the grilles real quick."

"Yeah?"

"Yep. Tested it out on that one. A good kick will do, just make sure you enter your last tunnel legs-first." He instructs causing Ezio to halt mid-way through their final passageway with the intake grille at its finish. From here, Altaïr can hear a group of men talk disparagingly, their words mildly distorted. He watches Ezio crawl back to rotate around, hears Connor through the line doing the same where he is situated, in the shaft all across the room. They are facing each other this time when Altaïr follows Ezio in utter silence and turns off the flashlight he no longer has use for as light streams generously between the shutters of the grille before them.

Ezio eases into the bell-mouth with a wary step, leaves a gap for Altaïr to observe while they wait for Aveline and Desmond to assume their own position. The grille plate is connected via proxy to the bell-mouth of the duct, fit into a wider frame rather than screwed into it, and may indeed be lobbed off by a powerful kick.

The last duo is about to descend into their final checkpoint when a sound more frightening than anything Altaïr had heard in life reverberates across the room below them, throughout the galvanized steel of ducts, and within Altaïr's chest.

It's this sickening squeal and shriek of warning sirens and the realization that something is terribly wrong that wraps around Altaïr's inner core and begins to constrict it, corroding it with its dark presence.

"_Someone fucking set off the alarm_!" He hisses in consternation.

"It wasn't me." Desmond peeps up through the line, mortified as the rest of them.

Ezio doesn't wait for joint orders.

He growls and hurls off the vent after two hefty kicks, plucks out a smoke grenade from a pocket, pulls at the trigger ring and chucks it inside the main chamber before he follows after. Altaïr is quick on his tail.

On the other side of the room, Connor does the same, then descends down into the wild uproar of shouts and coughing.

Altaïr rips his earpiece off the moment he sees Desmond and Aveline whoosh into the chamber and into its pandemonium.

When two angry gangs replete with weaponry clash within a closed space, there's not much beside bullets whizzing by and grunts of battle during the occasional hand-to-hand combat. The first few minutes of this attack are crucial. There is a mishmash of smoke, warning sirens, a confusion of voices they use to kick the available opponents out of weapons. They are outnumbered but not by a great number—their quintet against six of Robert's men excluding the Boss. He knows each and every one of them by face and voice.

The cracks of their defense are beginning to show.

Altaïr is trying to locate De Sable himself and check on others while sending Talal to ground with a nasty blow on the head, but in the ensuing minute of pell-mell it's difficult enough looking out for yourself and taking down enemies nearest to you, those left without chance to draw weapons, let alone looking out for others. But Aveline manages to do just this when De Sable, recovered from the smoke, launches an attack on Altaïr who turns too preoccupied with wrecking the resisting Talal as his rage takes over where good sense should have prevailed.

Robert is in mid-stride towards him, hand on hip feeling for his gun but his attempt is thwarted when Aveline lunges at the Boss, throws herself into his flank with a roaring battle cry and pitches the man out of balance. Robert is Altaïr's kill and she won't shoot at him. The two of them work in tandem to subdue Robert, with Aveline leaving him bereft of weapon and Altaïr chucking him out with the butt of his gun and an angry kick to the chest when he tries to rise.

The smoke is filtering out and De Sable's men realize they are defeated and surrounded, watch the dying tumult of the battle they lost before they could properly start it.

_The famiglia_ is moving in from all sides, scuffling the enemy towards the center of the room. The contrast in losses is gaping; there is not a scratch left on them, not a single bullet that hit target, while the inner circle of Robert's clan kneels bloody and beaten in the center of the chamber, their straw-man dead, their Boss forced to his knees before them with Altaïr leering over him.

Altaïr keeps his gun pointed at Robert, passes a look over the rest.

Majd Addin bleeding profusely from his fat belly and grunting in pain, restrained into kneeling by Ezio's weapon, Tamir with a dislocated shoulder and William attended by Connor, Talal with a broken-and-bleeding nose guarded by Aveline, Desmond to her right side watching sourly over Sibrand who looks least touched by this brief battle.

"Turn the camera on, Des." Altaïr orders when the two of them share a look. Desmond scowls and keeps the gun pointed to the back of Sibrand's skull, but moves sideways towards the tripod a little to their side to do as Altaïr has commanded.

Ezio heaves a sigh because he knows they are about to witness a grotesque escapade. He doesn't condone this approach, but very little of whatever he could say would influence Altaïr in a significant way.

Altaïr is caught in a staring contest with Robert who gives off an air of a man who hasn't been defeated along his entire inner circle only minutes ago, and he smirks at Altaïr from below, his face blackening with something dangerous and wicked, his eyes gleaming in a kind of animal ferocity. Nothing—nothing but the kneeling posture of this man—suggests that Robert recognizes that his life is hanging on a thin thread.

Never was there a blacker or a ﬁercer scowl on Altaïr's face than now.

"Where are they?"

Robert chuckles up at him without reticence, amused.

"You're not a bad sort of man, Altaïr. There's just a rash fury in you—"

Altaïr cuffs him across the face with an angry fist. Robert assumes his earlier position with a split lip, flashes another grin, bloody.

"Where. Are. They?"

"Tell him." Ezio prompts in wishing to cut this endless chase for answers, "You may yet keep your life."

A derisive sort of laughter rips from Robert's throat as he turns to face Ezio. "You think so, hm?"

Altaïr seizes him by the scruff of neck, a manic look in amber eyes while he snarls into Robert's face, "Speak or I'm gonna cut out your liver and _feed_ it to the dogs!"

"You're too late, you stupid mongrel." The Frenchman spits back, sends a spittle of crimson-red across Altaïr's lowered mask, but sooths himself down with uncanny speed. Behind him, not a man of his is stirring.

Robert smiles up at him like someone who came to a morbid understanding of himself as a man already dead: any additional time that he survives from now on will be a bonus.

The slant of lips expands into an ugly grin. Like a wolf that grins before it barks, before it sinks its jaws into the soft flesh of an enemy.

"First I fucked him..."

Altaïr thinks it would have felt less painful if he'd just plunged a knife into his stomach.

"... I made his whelp of a brother watch and cry while I raped him. I killed them, and then I threw their bodies into a sewer..." Robert ends with a chuckle, a last sadistic grin that wouldn't leave his face.

Robert's men, even wounded Majd Addin, kneel in a quietude, their heads stooping low.

Blind fury and grief don't settle within Altaïr as much as pierce him through like a spear does to a wounded beast.

He is experiencing a sensation not altogether physical, like standing on the edge off a cliff and wanting to scream while he hangs off its outermost ridge and wanting to let a howl rip through his deadened throat.

"You took away the only thing that gave me purpose in this shit you call life...?"

"Altaïr..." whispers Ezio with a mien of forced calmness, though in utmost shock like the rest of the Brotherhood. Altaïr doesn't listen. He doesn't even hear. Ezio does not exist in his new world, only Robert. Robert and nothing but inexpressible sorrow.

There is a dark transﬁguration on Altaïr's face which shifts under the weight of misery while he stares into Robert's bloody face.

"I expected you to hold your word..." Altaïr whispers.

"As did I. Expectation is the root of all heartache... Some argue Shakespeare himself said that."

Robert awards him with his last smirk, gloats over Altaïr's defeat.

Altaïr smiles back at him bitterly, drops his gun. No word comes off his lips when he lowers into a crouch and laughs brokenly. Not a soul around him shifts.

Something is swelling in the air and ready to burst any second, but until then the best thing any of the Brotherhood can do is wait with guns pointed at enemies and watch out for Altaïr's safety. Altaïr peers up at Robert with death glaring from his eyes. When he drives himself forward in a speed unearthly there is a blade in his hand and a wounded cry of a grief-stricken man, and Robert's throat is slit before anyone knows what's occurred.

Altaïr doesn't stop there.

He follows when Robert keels over, kneels suspended over his still breathing body, his cruelty rears its ugly head. The blade is shifted within his grasp until both hands grip at the hilt and plummet down with a cry wrung from the depth of his soul.

_The famiglia_ lets him pour out his immediate emotions into the kill and holds silence even as the great scene of grief tears at their hearts.

Altaïr's rage reigns unchecked. It's blind and detached from the world, spurred on by a tremendous grief where each wild, wicked stab seems at once involuntary and intentional, growing out of a profounder pain, deeper than a weak and puny impulse of reason.

Altaïr roars himself hoarse, the man a demon offspring of Furies themselves wielding the bloody scourge at an enemy already dead. Blood flows and spurts in abundance, sprays across Altaïr and the floor where it mixes with torn bits of unrecognizable innards, the body Altaïr cuts open is a sickening mess of broken bone and blood and intestine and tatters of shredded clothing.

The defeated enemy kneels unmoving and listens to each and every squelch of Altaïr's blade against the insides of their Boss, aware that the same will find them should they budge.

Altaïr stills his blade only after the muscles of his arms give out at last, his voice suddenly stops, leaving them in stark silence.

Ezio feels regret and sorrow at having allowed the young blood of the Brotherhood he loves like his children to witness this. The three of them stand tense like bowstrings, their faces contorted with anguished sympathy. Ezio's chest tightens so brutally he can't breathe as he watches Altaïr ascend from Robert's massacred corpse and break into horrible laughter, ghostly and unnatural. He used to have some influence over Altaïr, during what he feels was an entire lifetime ago. Now there is virtually nothing he can do or say that would break through Altaïr's head or heart. He keeps his gun leveled at the enemy and keeps an eye on _the famiglia_ who share Altaïr's agony, switches between them and Altaïr.

Altaïr tosses the blade to the side where it falls with a wet-and-bloody clatter.

He strides off the corpse of a man bludgeoned to death with a knife's blade, pelted by a number of stabs Brutus himself would envy, deformed and unrecognizable_._

Altaïr steps on and walks across the cooling blood of his kill without qualms with eyes shining unnaturally, looking like a manic lunatic with a wild look in his eye and splatters of drying blood across his entire front and face. He looks heartbroken to the point of madness. Ezio has never seen him thus.

Even more ominously, his face begins to take on a look of insidious evil.

Robert's death seems to have given him only a momentary relief during the midst of his deepest suffering, but it didn't cure his affliction. He cocks his head at the kneeling hostages before him, grief masking his ability to see past revengeful machinations.

"Shakespeare, is it?" Altaïr gives a hollow laugh, "To be or not to be... To kill or not to kill, that is the question. What follows?" He asks like a man teetering on the brink of sanity. Ezio scowls darkly, unsure where Altaïr is heading with this, but his reaction is easily overlooked.

A look of confusion passes between the kneeling figures.

"You." Altaïr points to Majd Addin with his other gun he pulls from the holster, "Go on."

The wounded man looks to his immediate neighbor in quizzical silence, but no word comes forth.

Altaïr aims at him again, this time cocking the gun safety to prove the serious nature of his demand.

"To be or not to be, that is the question," Majd Addin echoes, fishes for lines through muddled memory and through the pain of the former shot, "Whether it's nobler in the mind to suffer the... the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune..." On and on goes his strained voice until Altaïr shoots a bullet straight through his working mouth.

His dismal cry rings sharply through the chamber before he swoons with a wet gurgle and collapses into a bloody heap. Altaïr moves on unfazed, and commences an ugly vindication deficient in tact and reason, an act of a man with nothing now to lose, with no hope and seemingly no wish to gain anything through this cruel revenge for the death of his family.

"Continue." Altaïr commands to Talal, a man not next in order but waiting on the death-row nonetheless.

"Fuck you, you miserable bastard."

Sibrand next to him flicks a gaze at Talal from his low droop of head, white like a sheet. He flinches and recoils when Altaïr starts to riddle Talal's face with bullet holes and makes a grisly and blood-chilling sight. Altaïr's gun is out of ammo before the corpse can keel over. Three hostages remain.

Sibrand rejoices in elation and sends a silent prayer out after Altaïr opts for Tamir next.

"The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune?" He prods and picks up the loaded gun he had dropped off earlier, before Robert's death. A couple of moments pass but no word falls from Tamir's mouth but many a drop of sweat. William beside him speaks up instead, having understood that his brother-in-arms is not familiar with _Hamlet_. Death will come to him either way, better sooner than later, he concludes.

"Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them..." William begins with an eerie peace, "To die, to sleep—"

Altaïr sends a bullet through William's lung and turns to Tamir, but the Englishman goes on.

"—No more, and by a sleep to say we end the heartache, and the thousand natural shocks... that flesh is heir to—" He rasps through the coughing spasms that rack his body until Connor above him takes pity and lays the muzzle of his weapon against the back of his skull, and shoots. The body collapses forward into the bloody gore of his brothers, but before it manages to do so Altaïr has finished Tamir off without waiting for words.

Sibrand is what separates them from the utter destruction of the clan's inner circle and all turn to the kneeling figure, Altaïr to quench his thirst for blood and revenge and the rest to put an end to this ordeal.

"Wait—" The blond stutters and begins to rise, but Desmond shoves him down onto chafed knees with a snarl.

"Wait, I must speak—!" Sibrand begs insistent and frightened. Altaïr pulls him up into an uncomfortable half-kneeling position by the lapels of his suit and hisses:

"Why don't you die along with your master like the rest?"

"I was never truly welcomed into the group," Sibrand asserts in a flurry of rushed words, moving on quickly, "and your husband opened my eyes."

Altaïr growls beastly, his nostrils flare in ire and splatters of blood seem to glow on his face while he snarls at the mention of Malik.

"What do _you_ know of him?" He sends Sibrand into a hefty shake, but doesn't release the grip, "Speak up, worm, before I stamp you to death!"

"I know that he might still be alive!"

Altaïr recoils and drops him like a hot iron. He puts the muzzle of his gun to Sibrand's forehead little after the man clambers to knees.

"Linger a while longer and speak sense." Altaïr prompts, his voice hesitant towards the end where it's drenched in hope.

"He broke out of his cell right before you demolished this place and he set the alarm off. Some of the outer circle were sent to track him down. He may yet live if you reach him quick enough." Sibrand doesn't stop for breath during the course of his explanation, nor does he breathe while awaiting Altaïr's reaction.

"If what you claim is true, then your own life may be spared." Altaïr holsters his gun and Sibrand can breathe again, "I'd tell you to go to hell, but Lucifer himself wouldn't welcome a sniveling coward like yourself."

The insult is hardly an insult after all that was sent his way during his lifetime. Sibrand is happy that Altaïr is leaving his personal space to round up his brotherhood for the rescue search and happy for having opened up to Malik. He kneels and sways in the pool of blood, a mantra of jumbled prayers to whatever gods saved his life tonight spills forth from his mouth while Altaïr orders Connor to wring the locking-code out of him and keep a watch.

"Spread out," Ezio's voice cuts into their swelling dread and rouses them from the former state of dismay, rings through the chamber, "Clustering like this isn't going to help anyone. Disperse!"


	11. Fool Me Once Ch 6

**A/N: Bamf Malik ahoy.**

* * *

Malik follows a simple but carefully constructed pattern. Don't get killed and get Kadar out. Preferably unharmed.

This is difficult enough with a stealthy escape which they had initially planned (why else take out Jubair where a camera can't see it), but with the alarm boldly announcing their intentions this is somewhat of an obstacle, to put it mildly. Who would have thought that the security doors need both an unlocking and after-locking code. That's clever, but it's in-fucking-sane.

"Keep your finger off the trigger and keep your hand clear while you shoot, the slide will snap back," Malik reiterates the lesson he has started near the cell while they tear down a hall with the screech of sirens in their wake, "Everything ahead of it is danger zone―avoid sweeping and pay attention to how you're holding it."

Kadar is listening intently because it calms him to listen to Malik's firm confidence that speaks louder than the alarm. He keeps his finger off trigger and the weapon downrange, keeps his eyes ahead and runs in step with his brother but following his lead.

At first look, nothing seems much off aside from the blaring sound.

Lines of bulbs cast an eerie white glow over everything while they sprint through windowless halls that follow on like a tedious argument. They have to cover a long track before the polished steel of first doors leaps into the glare of bulbs. Malik estimates that at least sixty percent of this structure is unused, closed and locked off, but there must be at least one door unbolted on these lower stories and leading a way through windows or another kind of exit. One door is all they need. One side exit, or one window on lower grounds before they can descend all the way down to the main chamber which is off-limit as a passageway.

The sirens overhead cease abruptly leaving behind a deafening silence and forcing them to slow into wary steps and whispers to avoid being detected by potentially nearby enemies.

Malik stops after a single try to shoulder open a door which doesn't inch under his efforts, then falls silent.

They share a look and listen for other sounds in the deafening quiet of the halls. From now on they must speak in whispers and walk in steps instead of dashing across floors. The floors are a dirty-white, most walls a beige split by a metal railing in its middle, the ceiling tiled in pure white, and each sound echoes and is carried down the lengths of this network of halls.

None of the doors in this one are unlocked. Malik regrets not having a bobby pin or anything of like nature on him. That way he could at least have tried to pick-lock these smaller doors.

Kadar lifts his foot and kicks at the door in a bout of frustration without hope of success and Malik puts a hand upon his shoulder to both soothe him and pull him along.

They travel down the hall until it branches out, quiet and listening for guards.

They are at a crossroads with three paths stretching on before them. Malik knows his map by heart, but he wonders if it would be wiser to opt for some other choice and thinks on how time-consuming it would be examining all three. They haven't got time. They haven't got more than thirty minutes, that's the peak of generosity Malik can grant himself.

He chooses left at last, the route across the one he came from.

They begin to ease in into the midmost of the slight curve of this new hall, wordless until they reach its shapely end where the way stretches out right-ahead again, but with no doors in sight.

Malik's arm shoots out behind his back to halt Kadar whose duty is to watch their rear while Malik scouts ahead.

There is a man at the finish of this hall.

He holds a gun at his side, his profile turned to them while he examines what is probably another crossroads.

Malik doesn't heave a breath and pushes them back slowly as not to make a noise while they retreat, but the curving wall doesn't manage to cover them whole in the moment the man turns to look.

"Hey!" He yells, a straw-man Malik doesn't recognize, and starts after them when they fall from his sight.

He shouts an onslaught of threats at them while he chases after but he doesn't shoot. They must have been ordered not to injure during this hunt. An order Malik certainly doesn't defer to.

The second they find themselves at the crossroads they came from Malik veers right without a word and yanks Kadar along, thrusts him deeper into the hall while he takes cover at the very corner. Kadar wonders what the hell is going on while they listen for the running steps of the guard and when they hear the man heedlessly rushing after, Malik praises sweet stupidity.

To Kadar's utter shock, Malik ditches his cover before the man can rush past them, leaves him little time to do anything but run straight into Malik's solidified and outstretched arm. His fist, aimed above the midpoint of the man's collarbone, takes quite a blow, but he is prepared. The power of this collision sends Malik backwards and he bends to scramble out of the way of the man's sprawling legs when his foothold slips and hurls him onto his back across the floor.

Malik kicks aside the gun that has slipped out of his grasp. The man groans―he is not knocked out―and Malik drops down with little care to grasp the man's skull and slam the back of his head into hard ground. He is one crunch away from causing a catastrophic brain injury when Kadar pulls at his shoulders with a great protest, and Malik drops the man unconscious but alive.

"Don't kill him..." Kadar pleads in a whisper and Malik grants him the wish, shakes the surge of energy out of his muscles before he takes to plunder. Kadar takes up his own weapon again and carefully delivers the newly-acquired gun to Malik, crouches next to him and watches their surroundings for other guards. He feels rather naked in this exposed location, at the joint of four different halls.

When Malik turns the unconscious man to the side there is blood where his skull is cracked and he lets him drop to spare Kadar the gory sight. Malik stumbles upon only one item of use, but one possessed of such great worth that Malik wouldn't mind it being their last valued find on this journey.

It's a handsome stiletto, slim enough to slip between ribcage and into the heart, with double-edged and razor-sharp surface that wouldn't get stuck in bone. Malik is one for precision rather than slashing power; he doesn't like to make a death sentence longer than a few seconds. This must be an illegal loot only a mafia could pull off, but Malik would keep this blade as a memento if―_when_―they get out. He takes the entire sheathe off and straps it to his own belt. If all guards are as bright as this one, he may well get them out by means of his bare hands without a single shot fired. He won't praise the day before sunset though, life has taught him as much.

They don't take the same way they've been chased out of.

Malik ushers them back to the road familiar to him, hoping that at least one unlocked door will present itself on their way towards the main chamber. But they are out of luck. There are two, both equally barred.

They stand at the mouth of the hallway which hosts the entrance to the main chamber with nowhere to go but turn back to where they just came from. He knows Kadar is growing restless, he isn't doing any better himself, but they freeze in step when a ring of bullet-shots embeds into the reinforced door separating them from the main chamber.

They hear a commotion and the bark of guns in the distance, and it's not good.

It's not fucking good at all.

They retreat in as much haste as they can manage, pass the unconscious figure of the man Malik had looted for weapons, and descend into another maze of long hallways. There's no finesse in their route anymore, no purposeful or strategic following of a certain path. The hall they enter turns left, veers left and right and ahead, and Malik is losing his head.

There's no end to this clusterfuck.

They debouch into a passage opened out into a hall so long Malik literally can't see the end of it. It's peppered with sideway paths here and there, both left and right, and they must thread carefully in this wider space until they decide which side-route to take.

At first glance, there isn't much that seems wrong. This main way is dimmer, the lights overhead flicker intermittently. They have barely crossed a couple of steps when noise puts them to another standstill. By the sound of it, by the mutter of voice and the footsteps echoing from the side hall to their right, it's more than one man. Malik eases into the junction of two halls, sneaks the briefest of peeks from where he is hidden by the wall.

This time there are two and they carry weapons, and this time Malik won't be able to spare lives.

He turns to Kadar standing guard behind him, lowers his brother's head with a gentle pressure on his nape. Their foreheads touch and Malik keeps them there, gives directions to him in the barest of whispers. Kadar nods in understanding and nudges Malik's head along. He is supple to instruction and swift and flushed, his eyes are candidly eager. Malik loathes marring his chaste excitement with death.

"Just don't freeze up." Malik whispers into his temple, tightens his hold into an affectionate grip before release.

Malik doesn't risk another peek, but he listens to nearing steps until he deems the man close enough for his liking. He doesn't leave the cover as much as bolts from it like a coiled spring, fetches the first man to thrust him back into Kadar's territory and makes a dash for the other opponent. Two things occur then.

Kadar materializes before the first man still recovering from the stumble, snaps his fist out and wrecks the man across the nose like Malik had showed him. The guard folds up and covers the source of blinding pain with a hand, drops the other to the side where his weapon rests. An entire ocean of energy courses Kadar's veins when he grasps at the man's neck and plunges him low, down into the summit of his bent knee. His knee juts up in a hard kick and there is a grunt and a whole lot of blood and Kadar doesn't know if he's killed a man, but he has no time nor courage to mull it over.

Malik, like Kadar, doesn't even try to grab his weapon, just runs at the other straw-man before he can turn his front to Malik. The man takes to twisting his head to investigate the sounds, in vain. Malik winds his hand around the man's forehead, pulls his head back to slit open his neck with the stiletto, severs his jugular. The kill is swift. The man dies in Malik's arms in less than four seconds.

He doesn't loot the body but looks back to see Kadar's progress.

Kadar is now keeping his gun pointed at the man, wearing a look which would betray nothing of his inability to shoot people to death, but this look crumbles when Malik steals up behind the guard, blade in hand. Malik can't shrug off his pleading look. He sheathes the blade and addresses the man who twists sideways to look at him.

"Be grateful he spared your life."

The man skims a look back to Kadar and Malik uses this chance to wrench him into a rear choke. "Don't resist," Malik hisses when the man starts to dig into his choking arms. Nine seconds and his frontal cortex shuts down under the pressure. Malik maintains the vicious grip until the man slumps unconscious. He lays him out across the floor and rolls his shoulders back, stretches his muscles as he cleans the blade off previous kill on the man's clothes. It doesn't help much; his sheathe is bloody. They leave them, a breathing body and a corpse, and tiptoe on.

Kadar's excitement has faded into a silent gloom. As they move on into the next convenient route, Malik is toying with the idea of switching tactics. Their stealth went down the toilet anyway, he might well take the next man captive and find an exit via threatening or torture. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The guards seem to spawn with the intensity of his wish to find a way of egress.

They don't hear or sense this one though. He stands at the end of a hall, the entrance of which they carelessly stumble into.

There is a moment of frozen astonishment before any brother budges.

Malik leaves Kadar where he stands, starts towards the man.

The gray figure looks back before Malik can reach him and he is forced to shoot. The bullet embeds into the soft of the man's flank and he staggers onto a knee.

He recovers quickly. Too quickly.

His gun is at the ready when he winds back to shoot in retaliation. Malik has dodged many a bullet in his lifetime. When he crashes sideways into the wall sheer luck keeps him from spraining his shoulder or fracturing his ribs against the railing.

Two shots booms past and into the blind.

Malik fetches his opponent with a kick on lifted shin before the man can point the muzzle back at him. He trips over but keeps a balanced knee and gun in hand, but Malik is through with games. He puts his arms under the man's as if to pull him up, locks his hands and fingers behind his head. The man's finger slips from the trigger and sends the gun flying and across the floor. A snarl slips past Malik's throat while he bends the man's neck forward, presses locked hands down his nape with a brutish force until the man's rasping throat is stooped to the point of asphyxiation. The bunch of these men rely too heavy on weapons to know a proper combat.

The man is limp and dead in his lock when a distant sound sends Malik into a heart-pounding, rage-inducing, shattering fear.

At the end of the hall where he had left Kadar there is a pained groan.

Malik lets the corpse drop and scrambles back to his brother with a shout of his name on his lips, paralyzed by panic.

A scrunch of pain contorts Kadar's face, he stands clutching at his wounds, the leak of blood crawls down his forearm in slow trickles and drips across the floor off the tip of his elbow.

Until now Malik has not been afraid. A germ of doubt may have entered his thoughts now and again, but he had stood undaunted, with the ultimate path clear ahead of him even when his actions were marked by cautious indecisiveness. Until now, fear has not crossed his thoughts, nor his heart.

The shock robs him off all his strength and he can hardly drag his body along as he pulls Kadar to the side and lays him down into a half-upright position to rest against a wall.

He chastens this impulse of fright. It's a luxury he can't afford himself.

He pulls Kadar's unyielding hand away and does a rush job of ridding him of the blood-soaked shirt, makes him sputter a rush of words that descend into fast huffs. Air whistles between his clenched teeth as he breathes heavily through the pain, sits still and lets the pain ride.

Malik's eyes fall upon the wounds where the two bullets trenched their way through soft tissue and feels the pulse of a debilitating fear dwindle while he assesses the damage of the shots. Karma doesn't often pay off, but upon rare occasions she is generous in her kindness. The injury looks worse than it actually is. A discharge of blood is drained from it, muddying the right plane of his torso, two bullet holes close to each other, below Kadar's shoulder and the clavicular notch.

It's not the artery.

It's probably his subclavian vein that's ruptured or nicked. The blood is not gushing, it's streaming and oozing out, and it's dark, lacking oxygen as it is. Thank Allah almighty, it's a vein. He can stop this bleeding with a few minutes of pressure.

"It's alright, it's just a scratch," Malik is unsure who he is trying to assure while he cradles Kadar's face, "everything's gonna be alright. Don't worry." Kadar's eyes are glazed over with pain when he opens them, "Brother?_ Akhi_?" Malik calls and stirs him with a gentle shake, gets a nod in return.

He takes off his blanket-bag and carves out a quick piece with the stiletto―for the immediate staunch of blood-flow―before taking to cutting out longer ropes for binding. He had intended the blankets for barb-wire, but fuck it. He'll dig a hole underneath the fence with bare hands if it comes to that. With a double-fold piece he compresses the wounds and presses his lips together in a thin line when Kadar spits forth a succession of vile oaths.

Malik wishes it had been him shot instead.

He laments but works all the same, leans Kadar into himself to look for exit wounds on his back. Kadar turns a touch tense at this.

"Careful―blood'll get… on your shirt," he grunts to Malik weakly.

"A little late for that," Malik snorts, lays Kadar's frame heavily across his own and doesn't mind the warm soaking of blood on his clothes. The parallel patch of Kadar's back is bloody and he clears it off with a blanket piece haphazardly, in gentle wipes. There is one crescent-shaped exit wound on Kadar's back. The second bullet went through muscle and perhaps bone but remained inside his body.

Malik doesn't even dream of removing it. He doesn't have proper training in bullet removal, and he is far from the semblance of a sterile field and proper tools. The least worry is getting the bullet out. Thousands live daily with shrapnel embedded inside their bodies.

Malik tries to plug the back wound with a clean gauze to help the blood clot, but Kadar flinches away from him and into his chest, groans in sharp pain. Malik suspects a broken bone underneath. He slips his hand back, between their chests, to feel along his collarbone, but doesn't find it fractured. He worries more about a potential internal blood-loss anyway. Bullet design varies. These bullets were not hollow points, designed for greater damage, they are jacketed bullets, but Malik fears the bullet may have ricocheted inside his body and splintered a bone of his shoulder girdle. He will have to improvise a shoulder sling.

"Kadar, this is going to… well I don't have to tell you, I guess."

He doesn't want to push too hard and move the bone out of place, but he has to compress good against the seeping sanguine because he can't remove bandages once they stop the external hemorrhage and become soaked. Malik does his best to ignore Kadar's sharp intake of breath and the way his muscles quiver in pain.

He lifts him off his shoulder and straightens him up a few inches, wraps a tight band of bandage around his chest and back and shoulder, and puts the arm of his injured side in a quick sling.

He collects leftover blankets into his bag and leaves useless scraps behind, begins to stroke across Kadar's arms where the injury doesn't spread, across his ribs where it's not sticky with blood, and neck, vigilant for signs of shivering and hypothermia.

"Can you move?"

"Not right now." Kadar grunts, accepts the shirt Malik dresses him in, the unspoiled one beneath his cardigan.

"Toughen up, princess. I have to get you out."

"Asshole..." Kadar tries to smile through a throe of pain, but falls into worry in the fraction of a second, "I love you, _akhi_." He adds in a whisper, seeks out Malik's eyes after Malik finishes pulling his cardigan back on.

Panic shoots through Malik at these words. He begins a rapid overall assessment of his brother, sizes up for signs of internal bleeding. He kneels in and feels along his jugular and neck but his pulse is not that weak. He doesn't show any signs of decreased alertness.

"You'll tell me that again when we're out, okay?" He presses their foreheads, wants to impart a load of confidence onto him, however impossible the task. Kadar knows they are far from getting out yet, they have yet to clamber down the forest and into first borders of civilization, and the first medical facility is far off.

"Can you stand?" Malik asks again, throws a look around for the first time since he has started wrapping Kadar up. Aside from the corpse at the far end of the hall, there is no one else.

"I think so." Kadar is trying to lift himself and feels his stomach flutter while he is helped to his feet.

Vertigo seizes him for a moment, only briefly, and after a wobbly first step, he stands fine. Malik keeps his arm around his waist, situates himself on his uninjured side to help him along until Kadar gets the hang of it and familiarizes with the nature of pain.

Urgency begins to scull Malik's actions.

Finding the nearest exit is now more crucial than ever.

He takes a breath but tries not to imbue it with worry to avoid infecting Kadar with an overly bad mood. He must keep Kadar's spirits up and that's the last thing he needs right now. He scans ahead where they venture on and there are two turns, left and right. Malik has a strong feeling about the right path and opts for that one. It may be a wild instinct or a foolish sense of premonition, or it may be nothing, but he travels down that path nonetheless, now with Kadar trailing at his side, occasionally checking their back to spare Kadar this task.

Malik curses.

Before they can even exit this new hall they are disturbed by heavy footsteps trudging up the one that connects to theirs.

Malik damns his rotten luck.

He maneuvers Kadar against the wall where he will be safest and darts down the end of the hall to lie in ambush and wait for his next victim.

Time seems to slow and Malik waits, until the unmerciful tramp of footsteps gets near enough.

Then he pounces.

He slams into the man and sends him flying into the opposite wall where he lands with an unpleasant crunch. The man attempts to lift his frame off wall, but he is crashed back against it with a quelling thud, trapped under the tenacious grip of Malik's arms.

Altaïr sees white through the searing agony as pain explodes across his side and spine and face. He slumps into the wall, dazed, braced for an impact of a fist...

... that fortunately never comes.

Altaïr's vision clears to find a pair of dark-brow eyes parallel to his own.

Malik stares back into his husband's bedazzled eyes with astonishment and confusion etched onto his face, before a strange laughter of disbelief erupts from his throat and across his visage.

"Malik?" Altaïr whispers in mirrored disbelief, tears his arms from his husband's shackling grip to trap Malik's face within his hold.

"No, it's the pizza guy." Malik's voice, though heavily-laden with sarcasm, is comforting to hear, a balm for the soul.

Malik stares at the man holding him.

Altaïr looks like shit.

Exhausted, tired, worn-out, run-down _shit_.

His eyes are bloodshot, soot and splattered-painted-dried-foreign blood across his face, beads of cold sweat formed under his hairline.

"You look like shit."

_I feel worse_ remains lodged inside Altaïr's throat as he says, "I'm fine."

"You're a lot of things, Altaïr, but fine is definitely not one of them," and Malik puts Kadar's blood to his husband's bloody face as he frames it and lets a thumb glide across his cheekbone, but never finishes this journey because Altaïr mashes their lips together. He kisses desperately, increasing the pressure between them until it starts to hurt. Malik parts his mouth, their teeth clack roughly as Altaïr dives into the kiss with a violent hunger, urgently. Malik kisses powerfully but with more semblance, his hands abandon Altaïr's face to drop to his shoulders to disentangle himself after Altaïr begins to rake fingers through his unruly hair almost frantically and pulls him further into the kiss. Altaïr's actions are sodden with ache Malik had never felt on him before. It scares Malik into splitting them up entirely.

When at last he separates himself, Altaïr still seems to want to hold onto him, as if fearful that Malik might run away from his hold.

"There's no time for this, _fool_," Malik chastises, keeps Altaïr at an arm's length, "Kadar has been shot."

This seems to sober Altaïr up and he switches his focus to wider area and to the younger man patiently standing at Malik's back and holding his suspended arm tenderly.

"How you holding up, twerp?"

"Been better." Kadar offers laconically, but elated with a profound relief and overcome by the sweet smell of impeding freedom.

Altaïr nods awkwardly and lets go of Malik, not entirely satisfied to have been coerced into doing so.

"We have a medical team waiting outside, you'll be alright." Altaïr assures him and fumbles around with what looks like an earpiece and a miniature mic. "Regroup at the main chamber, I found them." He speaks into it and tears the earpiece off. He looks longingly at his husband while Malik takes Kadar piggyback and instructs in how to hold himself without upsetting his injuries. He didn't even get a chance at properly welcoming Kadar.

Altaïr guides them out.

There isn't much track to cover, not more than three turns. They have been so close to an entirely different entrance to the main chamber.

Malik holds onto Kadar's thighs and begins to scowl darkly with each new step.

Further in, there is a smell. Subtle at first, strong enough for his sensitive nose. But Kadar picks it up shortly thereafter and Malik senses it on his back, in the way his lungs begin to work. The strength of it grows, it's hard to miss down here in the closed space, and makes Malik's stomach turn slightly.

He is familiar with this smell, knows its nuance and meaning, it's the one on his hands and Altaïr's face and Kadar's wounds, only worse. Malik knows what awaits them when they step through heavy doors and into what had been the main chamber, but they enter to find a true Thyestean banquet.

Kadar lasts entire eight seconds before he drops from Malik's back with a choked-off sound and vomits up his everything.

Malik knows the sight will forever be ingrained into Kadar's memory. You have to be made of steel not to throw up at this grotesque entanglement of bodies bathing in a swelling pool of crimson. Malik listens to Kadar's retching and watches this horrific display where his husband filled the empty void he had felt with warm blood, and Sibrand kneeling among it all, looking white-and-dull.

_The famiglia_ is regrouping quickly, leaving little reason to dwell further inside this sad battlefront riddled with death.

"Altaïr, do I leave the camera behind?" Desmond asks for orders.

"Yes, leave the mess," Altaïr answers firmly, imparts what he sees as a memorable lesson to keep in store for future reference, "Let everyone know that Altaïr Al-Sayf Ibn-La'Ahad is same as he's always been. Only a little worse." He drops his gaze to where Sibrand is listening with intent vigilance, "Let them look upon this and think before they cross the Auditores. Let them think _twice_ before they cross the Al-Sayfs."

Malik listens to this haughty speech and feels Altaïr's longing touch on the back of his hand, but he rips it from his husband's reach.

"You did this?"

Altaïr looks at what Malik is looking―not the only leftover of a former clan but the massacre of a lunatic―and Altaïr finally beholds it too, like a man who's just seen this for the first time, like he's slowly coming to the realization of what he has left in the wake of his fury. It's nothing short of terrifying.

"I did." He answers in like whisper and swallows. Behind them, Aveline and Connor are fussing over Kadar.

"You're nuts. You're fucking nuts."

Malik is livid.

Altaïr benevolently welcomes any reaction he can elicit from him, but he doesn't quite know how to deal with his husband's anger.

"This is why I didn't want to get involved with you and this bullshit. I want nothing to do with this. _Fuck_." Malik curses on, enticed into an incensed fury.

Altaïr stands resembling a beaten pup, disoriented and craving the gentle touch of a caring hand. He doesn't want to budge from Malik's side, but the man abandons him to go ahead and approach Sibrand.

"Jubair is alive, Sibrand. Find him in our ex-cell." The man does little to look up and Malik sinks into a crouch and puts a hand to his shoulder to shake him into alertness, "And find yourself a man, for heaven's sake." He drops the tone where words are intended for the blond alone.

Sibrand surveys his face for a moment before he nods in vague understanding.

Altaïr follows this quiet exchange with a critical-and-jealous eye, but morphs into a hopeful look when Malik leaves the blond and turns to collect his brother. Malik's gaze lands fleetingly upon his face and darkens into a glare. Altaïr drops his eyes and holds silence.

"Let's get you out, kid." Ezio instructs and arranges for Connor to carry Kadar out.

"I'd rather that Aveline carry me." Kadar quirks up into a weak smile while he leans on her for support.

"The kid's still got spirit in him, alright," she coos and pets across his cheek and jaw and smiles at him assuredly as she passes him into Connor's hands. Connor heaves him onto his back and a grunt of pain rips from Kadar.

"Are you okay?" Connor turns head to inquire, pulls him up by the back of thighs to let him lie more comfortably across his frame.

"Just peachy." Kadar gives a puff of chuckle and winds his available arm round Connor's neck.

Altaïr tries to reach out for Malik's hand again as they leave the building and spill forth into the night where the vehicles are waiting ready for them, but Malik denies him the touch. Malik won't spare him a look and a different kind of panic begins to crawl up Altaïr's spine.

The gate opens easily with the locking code revealed by Sibrand and they begin to board the vehicles. Kadar refuses to enter the van on a stretcher and slips off Connor's back into it to let the two paramedics offer professional aid. Malik is trying to search out a place for himself, but there's no comfortable fit for a sixth person and Aveline pushes him away from rear of the van.

"Connor and I will keep an eye on him, worry not." She is insistent in her pushing and trying to close the wings.

"But I need to be with my brother now―"

"You need to be with your husband, Malik." She scowls at him, not angry but persistent in her unsubtle endeavor to reunite them. She flings the doors closed in the face of Malik's unhinged mouth and he doesn't venture a second intrusion. He knows Kadar is in good care. At this point he can't even impose himself into the front of the van because Desmond is the driver and Leonardo has annexed the remaining seat. The rasp of Aveline's words ushers him slowly towards the car.

The van drives off down the curvy road of the hill and the car waits for his advent.

Malik sighs into the chilly night, lets his eyelids fall and takes a figurative step back, tries to see himself from a distance.

He has been unfair to Altaïr.

The man has only ever wanted to save him. The endeavors he must have endured to reach this point. And all for a fuming dismissal as a thanks from his spouse. Malik has been a hypocrite. Murder is murder, it matters little if it's done one kill after another, as Malik had done it, or in a single heap of bodies, as Altaïr had left them. These people have risked their lives tonight to save them, and for this reason only Malik owes them an apology and gratitude. To Altaïr he should have offered words of comfort where he lashed with careless temper.

He shakes himself out of stupor and verges towards the car.

Ezio is sitting behind the wheel, patient in his taciturn waiting, and Altaïr on the backseat, hands on thighs, unmoving and quiet.

Malik technically could take up the passenger seat.

He eases into the back seat instead, beside Altaïr. Ezio gives him a first (and what is to be the last during this journey) look from the rear-view mirror and starts the engine. Words are not exchanged at the onset of this ride towards the villa, but Ezio tunes out anyway to give them privacy.

Altaïr has not budged from where he reclines with his head lolled back onto the headrest, eyes closed and face slack, expressionless.

But then he feels Malik's hand holding his right, the sensation collapses in around his visionless state and wrenches him from the jaws of half-consciousness. His head snaps up and his lips slip into the hold of Malik's awaiting ones. The cradle of Malik's fingers keeping his face still drags him off into a moan, Malik's warm lips lure him deeper into the kiss. A long curve of the road settles Malik further into Altaïr's body and warmth, and this sets off a trigger in Altaïr, an impulse which makes him shackle Malik within the bounds of his arms, coerces him into a tighter grip. This serves only to further Malik's desire for his husband and soon there is little beside hitched breaths and soft smacking of kissing lips.

In this baffling-and-inexplicable surge of emotion Malik wouldn't mind making love to his husband right here and now, in Ezio's very presence.

Ezio, having sensed that things were starting to hit the roof at a rapidly growing speed, tosses a fat pack of wet wipes in their general direction―a thing long overdue―and sets them to an awkward split-up.

"Save that for later." Ezio teases, a luscious smirk pulls at his lips and pinches his tired eyes.

Malik doesn't dignify that with a response, but he does pick up the package. He pulls a couple of wipes out, wraps them into a stuffed bundle and begins to clean Altaïr's face. The tracks of long-dried blood flake off under Malik's meticulous grooming, begin to reveal the entirety of Altaïr's drained expression.

Another curve sends Malik right into Altaïr's arms and he begins to dip in and dot his wiping with sporadic kisses.

Altaïr releases his waist to mirror Malik's first cradle, a burden is carved deep into his features as he searches out Malik's eyes in the dim light.

"I'm here," Malik whispers in a hush, lays his sticky-wet palms across the back of hands framing his face, "It's alright."

"No divorce?" Altaïr wants to know, tightening his hold in fear of an answer.

"Gods, no," Malik breathes out in a humorless chuckle, coils his fingers into Altaïr's hands to relocate them to his waist once more, "I've been speaking in anger, forgive me."

Altaïr swallows and dips his head into a nod, imbibes himself with the apology until he's drunk with relief. No divorce. No divorce.

"Maybe..." Altaïr stops as resolve vanishes in the face of what he intends to say, "Maybe you would be safer away from me, and Kadar―"

Malik silences him with a press of lips and retreats when he deems Altaïr has been robbed of words.

"I know what I've gotten myself into when I married you, fool." Malik shushes him, wants no more of this subject, "Don't make me kick you out on the couch tonight."

Altaïr gives a watery smile and ceases talk of marital issues, with no intentions on forfeiting his husband's presence in their bed, not tonight when he needs him most.

"You really should make less enemies." Malik says even as he knows that the burden of tonight's deaths they share together.

Malik shelters his husband's hand within his own, keeps Altaïr's head deeply-pressed into his neck, and heals his deepest wounds.

The night reigns on and they advance into the city.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you all for sticking until the end and for the favs and thoughts and for reading, it's been a pleasure!**


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